Love Demands Sacrifices
by Arithanas
Summary: A collection of short stories that revolves about the things characters had to give up for their loved ones. *Chapter 16 is up!*
1. Mama Loves You

**SUMMARY: **1634, Madrid. On the circumstances by which Marie de Rohan could not keep her son. Marie Michon's POV.**  
>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.  
><strong>CONTAINS: <strong>discussions about abortion and child abandonment.

_To A. in his birthday_

**Mama loves you**

The boy stirred in her arms, desperate as always it was his feeding time. Marie stroked the head full of soft hair, the curls that graced the top of his head were almost brown with blond highlights; a strange color, one which will certainly change as the child grows. She began to untie the laces of her bodice with her left hand, observing that wrinkled face with eyes closed and mouth pursed, her baby was about to to utter a cry, demanding to be feed. This little boy was born to command men in battle, and for this, the good Lord had given him a good pair of lungs that suffer not from the heat of Spain.

A small mouth was closed around the nipple, that boy was drinking milk as it was the last of the world, instead of bawling his eyes out. She was still surprised by that common sense demonstrated by such a small creature; she was sure that that was not a characteristic that she possessed. A small hand was laid upon the white breast with a possessive gesture that none of the other babies had shown. Kitty always called him 'love child' but the label was incorrect and inappropriate; her little man was a 'lust child', the product of an affair that lasted only one night. He was the son of a man whom she did not know the name and of which she did not even remember the face. Of course, she had not foreseen such a result for that adventure.

While her baby was suckling on his food with fierce determination, Marie wondered, as usual, why she let him live. Nothing would have been easier than terminate her pregnancy; even in Spain, finding an unscrupulous midwife or an apothecary with pantry full of abortifacients herbs required almost no effort. Those were resources she had used previously —between his two marriages and behind her current husband's back— and, as the first signs appeared, she thought of resorting to them once again, but decided against it. 'Another folly of Madame,' Kitty had remarked when Marie informed her that she would keep the baby. Yes, that decision was insane, but, when the quickening came, the Duchess of Chevreuse was convinced that she made the right choice.

Kitty entered the room, fully dressed in her traveling attire, this time she will make her journey with a skirt. The Duchess smiled remembering another trip done with man knickers. Shaking her head and muttering to herself, the young Englishwoman took the shawl from the bed and wrapped her mistress' shoulders, disapproving such a display of impudence. A sad smile responded to the words of gratitude from the Duchess and, without comment, she began collecting the baby's few earthly possessions.

"My little man," she cooed, caressing that bare head, trying to ignore the noises that Kitty made behind her back , "I'm happy that you have a big appetite for you have a long journey ahead..."

The baby stopped sucking and opened his eyes, those brown eyes were so beautiful and so expressive... the child had responded to the tone of her voice but his intelligence didn't allowed him to understand that this was a farewell. His lips and his hand returned to the urgent matter that interested him most.

"Mommy loves you, little man, but mommy cannot have you by her side as she had dreamed that she would..." the Duchess did not know why she felt he had to explain to a child who could not understand her, but that did not deter her. "Mommy's husband was not happy to hear that you were born healthy and the last time he wrote, he clearly indicated that health was something that you'd lose soon. Mommy loves her baby and that is why she have to let him go..."

Kitty was used to heard her mistress talk to the baby — she was incorrigibly talkative — but the tone and the words made her hide her face in a linen baby blanket. The cuckolded husband had considered that a child was too much affront to his ruined honor. The letter from the Duke of Chevreuse was written in such terms that they feared infanticide was the smallest of his plans of revenge, he could do much more, and let him live in the most abject misery. That was too much risk for a mother and, almost against her will, the Duchess had made a sensible decision.

"Mom is sending you home to your father, my little man, he will surely be a good man and take care of you..."

The Englishwoman made an upset gesture, she was angry with herself for crying and with Madame for trusting a village priest, hoping that his Christian charity was better than his vow of chastity. The sobs softened her anger, they reminded her that Madame had only two choices and none of them was a good one.

The baby let out a cry, it was impossible for him to understand what was happening, but like all children, he felt compelled to express his solidarity if his mother was sobbing. Kitty slung the baby's bag over her shoulder and ran to the mother and child. Kitty felt the farewell, but she also had to admit that her mind was in the long hours in the carriage with a colicky baby; Marie had leaned the child against her shoulder and the lady-in-waiting embrace them both.

"I didn't want to cry..." the Duchess said apologetically as she stroked the baby's back.

"I don't see how Madame could help it," the maid of honor said pulling out his handkerchief to wipe her mistress' tears.

"As soon as he fell asleep, Kitty..."

"I take the carriage to France and make sure that the child arrives with his father; I go through Brittany and collect that bill's amount; and then, I go to England and seek house and servants for your arrival this November. Did I understand you right, Madame?"

"Yes, Kitty, you got it right," admitted the Duchess still stroking the crying baby.

"It is great fortune, because Madame had to repeat it only thirty-five times from yesterday to today..."

The Duchess had wanted to smile, but the sigh of the child announced that sleep had fallen on him. Kitty also noticed this fact and without too much fuss, she pulled the laces her mistress' bodice. That gesture was well intentioned —she sought to help her— but still, to Marie, that cloth over their breasts full of milk was as mournful as a blanket over the face of a corpse; and Kitty, with her arms opened to receive the baby, seemed as frightening as an executioner on the scaffold. But that was only nonsense, and she had to resign herself to hand over the child for his own good.

Marie would have given ten years of her life for this moment would never have to come.

"Mommy shall find you, my little man..." she promised, depositing one last kiss on the forehead of the child.

Kitty took the baby from her arms and left the room in haste, without stopping to do courtesies; the Duchess understood it too well, Kitty had felt that she would lack the courage if she stopped to say goodbye, and, quite frankly, if she had taken a pause, Marie would have reversed her orders. The Duchess of Chevreuse remained seated, with her eyes closed, as Kitty's footsteps died away in the corridor, trying not to show how much it hurt to know that she was carrying her baby away.

"May God be with you, François," Marie begged, feeling the tears flowed, "and may His Blessed Mother watch over you wherever you go, my son."

The carriage wheels resounded on the paved road, taking with them a piece Marie de Rohan's heart.

...

**Author's note:**_ Originally, this was written as a gift for a friend. A month later it evolved into a project of subjective short stories_. Thank you for reading.


	2. The Quarrel

**SUMMARY:** A new life, a new home, _a new baby?_ That was to much to bear and Grimaud attempted to left his service. When his master prevent it, the Breton spoke his mind and he spoke it hard. Grimaud POV.  
><strong>CONTAINS:<strong> Discussions about a rather particular domestic agreement and depictions of a brawl.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.

To lilgenius

**The Quarrel  
><strong>by Arithanas

_The art of being a slave is to rule one's master.  
>~ Diogenes<em>

His behavior was very strange since the trip to Toulouse, my work was doubly hard because he seemed annoyed of everything going on around him and last winter, for the first time since I worked for him, he had ordered to put out the fire, arguing that he could not stand the heat. Every time he saw a woman, in his face appeared an expression of scorn and his whole attitude changed when one of them entered a room, no matter that it was the plump wife of Charlot; I had not seen him like this since the early days after his wife. At night he tossed and turned in bed, panting and grunting as if he were in pain, but in the morning I could not figure out what was troubling him. In the morning, he came back to be the perfect gentleman that his father had raised.

Then my master began to give up many things. He stopped fencing, instead he spent long hours sat at the window. He stopped drinking in the taverns, preferring to quench his thirst at home; and he didn't ride his horse again, which was one of the things that put him in a better mood. He began to be quite negligent in his Musketeer service by his own stern standards and if he did not persisted in his resignation, M. de Treville had not taken too long to ask him to render an account about his peculiar state of agitation.

Regarding me, he was still the master. He met his powers to beat me if I not served him as he wanted, but I had been unable to meet his wishes, since he changed his mind every five minutes. Sometimes he forgot that he had ordered me something, and then got mad because I wanted to impose something on him. The details that made tolerable to serve him were not there anymore. He could spend days without a bit, as long as he had a bottle handy, but I needed to eat; he could withdraw and spend hours looking at a wall. He could ignore me, but I needed him to realize my presence.

When the letter came and informed him that Bragelonne was his property, I thanked God on my knees for disturbing our tranquility. A new home meant a lot of shouting on his part, and many orders to fulfill on my part. He would have to notice that I was there, if he wanted get things done, and he would want get things done his way: fast and neat. The first two weeks were almost like going back to our old life: he ordered, I obeyed. There was much work to do and I did it gladly. The change did him good, he even started talking about spending the rest of his life in this old castle, improving things, including me in his plans. He could continue drinking as if his goal was to drown from the inside, but he was out of his stagnation. He had become _The Master_ again, with full rights.

When I woke up this morning and he wasn't in the house, I didn't worry. His horse wasn't in the stall and a part of me was glad that he wished to ride out, for it just meant to me that he would be in a better mood when he returned. Whatever had been bothering him, it no longer mattered. Now things could only improve.

I took my time to check the crates and accommodate his possessions in their right rooms. While I worked, I fantasized about his satisfaction at seeing that the old mansion was beginning to seem like his home. I don't even noticed the passage of time until the light began to fail while I polished the silverware. At that time, I admit it, I felt apprehension; my master was more than capable of taking care of himself but, lately, he was too drunk to be entrusted with that task.

Soon after, I heard a shout on the gate and I went to face the biggest surprise of my life.

...

I saw him cradling the baby after feeding him, he seemed pleased with the presence of his son, and I resented his very existence. I was no stupid and I knew how to made additions and subtractions. My master did not told me the boy was beget in Roche-l'Abeille, but I was sure about it. There where two bottles over the table, one for the child, one for the father; and the fact that he was drinking while taking care of that boy unsettled me ever more. I could not stand it. I knew it was beyond my strength to take care of two helpless creatures.

Especially a baby, God forgive me but I never liked small children.

I always assumed that he also disliked children. I never witnessed a smile on his face when he saw a group of children, and the noise they made always annoyed him. He liked his silence and simple and neat things, since he was a child. Nonetheless, during those last two hours, he seemed entranced by that little one who cried and whined constantly. He did not feel bothered by cluttering his room and mess his shirts, so to ensure that the child was comfortable. In a blink, he completely changed only by the kid.

Well... almost entirely. In two hours he had emptied four bottles, a clear sign of his uneasiness. At that time I missed it, the last year he had been drinking as if his mission in life was exhausting the stocks of all the vineyards of France.

During those two hours, I made the hardest decision of my life. I was going to leave his service, voluntarily, and without knowing what would be of me. Everything in my nature rebelled at the thought of leaving, but the choice was to stay and see how he devoted himself to get drunk and to neglect the child, that he seemed to want to preserve at all costs. I knew I could not live in the conditions in which he tried to force me to accept.

I begged the Heavens to have the strength to leave him once and forever.

I steeled myself and went to the chair where he sat, got down on one knee and with all the reverence I could muster, I kissed his hand in what I thought would be my last act of submission to him. I know he felt something, we had lived too long together, most of that time without speaking a word, we were accustomed to understand each other by acts and looks. Discourses were unnecessary between us.

"Grimaud?" he managed to call me before I reached the door.

"I am going to beg for work in another castle," it was my reply, and I really mean it.

"What is this nonsense?" in his voice was a genuine surprise and alarm.

I heard the question, but I still left the room, and then the castle, taking with me only what I carried on my back. I was sad and frightened, the only life I knew was by his side, but the anger spurred me with the same force as it once did devotion, although in the opposite direction. I heard his footsteps on the steps of the _perron_, but I did not look back, I knew that if I saw him, my intentions would worth less than nothing, he could still dominate with one look of his eyes.

"Grimaud, enough of this foolishness, " he ordered me as he stepped on the courtyard. "I need you inside to help me with Raoul..."

For the first time since I knew him, the words 'I need you' in his lips meant nothing to me. I have served him faithfully, I deserved that he let me go and his insistence made me furious. I turned around and faced him, but I do not know what I intended to accomplish with that. Having an argument with him wouldn't change a thing. The first words out of my mouth surprised me, but they felt so good that I didn't regretted saying them.

"Don't count on me to raise your bastard," I snapped at his face with malice, knowing how much that word would hurt him, but wishing with all my heart to cause him pain.

His face showed me that the first injury had cut deeply, but still they did not dissuade him from trying. Instead of raising his hand to hit me, as he could had done before, his hand touched my shoulder and held on tight to my shirt. I should recognize the gesture, now I regret not seeing it in its proper dimension.

"Be reasonable," he asked me so softly, his eyes asking the same but there was no fire behind them. "Stay."

_Laosk ac'hanon ma-unan_, was the immediate response that came to my mind. _Leave me alone!_, I thought. That scared me. How long since I thought Breton language? Since I started working in his father's house, when I was five, at least.

"No," I pulled my shirt from his iron hand, and took a few steps backwards, trying to not trip me over the ledge of the neglected planting beds. "I have no patience to raise two babies, and if I had a choice, I prefer to take care of _him_, because I know that at least he will stop wetting his pants in two years!"

"That remark was uncalled-for," he chided me but his face showed his deep mortification, only both of us knew what happen when he was in his cups.

"I don't lie."

"I'm not saying you did it," a sigh escaped his lips and he dropped his hands. "But you can't leave without telling me why."

I looked at him dumbfounded. He really did not understand why I was leaving him and that aggravated me. I couldn't stop what I had in my head.

"I've been by your side more than twenty years in a row," I complained to his face. "I've watched you and I've protected you all the time and I just hoped for some humanity within that body that the wine has do not spoiled yet". That statement made him cringe, but I continued. "You said that this mature age you'll let me serve you and I'll rest in the countryside. You said we'd both be in this house, that we would spend peacefully the rest of our lives. I believed you!"

"He was not an expected acquisition."

"Then send him back to his mother!"

"He has no mother!" the Count shout to me in the same exasperated tone he used when I do something really bovine. I must have grazed an unseen wound. "My son will never need no mother!"

"Everyone need a mother..."

"...Said the castle's orphan!"

That was enough, I whipped that ever-present haughty smirk of his face with a solid blow. I sensed my knuckles collide against his jaw and I saw him stagger backwards, with a shocked expression that would have been really laughable at another time. Was it adequate to remind me that my parents departed before I could get a remembrance of them? Good, because I do remember _his_ parents.

"At least my mother did not abandon me!" I spat at him.

For the blow that struck my ribs, I grasped that my words had lanced deep as a knife. Olivier always resented the fact that his mother leaved him and go to serve the Queen Mother in Paris, instead of staying at La Fère to protect him. Like many things in his life, he was trying not to remember that and if someone brought it up he exploded like a barrel of powder. At that time I was more than happy to make him remember and enjoyed the savage glee that overcame me almost as much as the blow with which I responded to his aggression.

I was really surprised when the second strike hit home for I knew it was no match for him, even in the advanced state of inebriation in which he was. Years of being his quintain had taught me to avoid his punches, but I had never managed to pass on his defenses. I became bolder when I noticed that my fist really touched him but the much expected satisfaction I crave was frankly reduced when he blocked my next attack and refused to return my punch.

"I understand you're upset..." He began with a tone of condescension that rekindled my anger.

Upset? The word does not even begin to define how I felt. As the words were not enough to show my anger, I fell upon him with a hail of punches while he devoted himself to dodge and block. Occasionally, my fist found his ribs or his head, but even in those moments he had no retaliation. Why he didn't fight back?

I'm not sure how we ended up on the floor, his weight pinning me down and his hand holding my shirt by the shoulder. Not my shoulder, my shirt. I writhed beneath him, trying to break free, ignoring the words he tried to get into my head in desperation, I thought I heard something like fear in his voice, but surely my ears deceived me. The man that all my life had dominated me with a look was now trying to reason with me; and I failed to understand how that simple fact didn't force me to realize that the situation was more serious than my eyes could see.

"Listen!" he barked the order, it almost as if it was a plea, trying to stay away from my fists. "You had vented your anger, now listen to me!"

Like hell I was going to listen him any more! Also, I had not yet finished to indulge my anger, my hands sought his neck and he threw his head back, dodging my attack. His hands slid over my chest and my shoulders left the ground.

"I need to stop drinking!" the Count yelled, trying to get my attention.

Of course he need to stop drinking, he was in sore need to get sober for more than ten years!

"Late for that!"

My frustrated shriek should have surprised him for I toppled him without effort; I saw his head hit the ground with massive force and he crossed his arms over his face to protect himself while I straddled his midriff.

"I would never do it by myself!"

"Too bad!"

Then, as I raise my fist, he let his arms fall down to the ground exposing himself to my wrath. I was out of my mind, but as my arm began to fall, I saw his face. He had no expression. His mouth had no barren teeth on defiance. There was not a furrowed brow to hold me in contempt. His eyes never cringed faced with the imminent coup. On the moonlight only his deep, dark blue eyes spoke to me. He always knew how to held a complete dissertation with one short gaze.

_Hurt me!_ those hunted eyes said to me, _I __deserve __all the __damage__ you want to __inflict __on __me_.

I had seen that look before...

...

It was the day the Count returned from that chase without his wife. He stormed into the castle, took down the portrait of the Old Count and broke the expensive frame before rolling the canvas over the jeweled sword that always was over the mantelpiece. Immediately after, he rushed out of the castle, as if the legions of hell were after him.

He was leaving the castle.

In great haste.

Without his wife.

For me, it was blatantly clear: Something was wrong...

I did what I had been trained to do: I packed his valise and mine, I took the first horse that came to my hands in the stable and followed him. I found him on the banks of the river, his whole posture spoke of defeat but my master was trying to keep his composure by dint of pride; it was like seeing a dead tree, hollow inside, but it stood only by the miracle of a hard bark. As I approached, my master threatened me with the first weapon he could find. I still think that I saved my life only because the Count realized he was about to stain the most sacred family relic with plebeian blood.

"What are you doing here?"

"I did our luggage because we travel, ain't we?"

His reaction was quick. My master raised his fist, I thought he was going to hit me for my insolence, but to my utter surprise, his fingers clutched the fabric of my shirt, by my upper arm, but he didn't touch the flesh underneath it.

"I'll leave..." he said, and the tone in his voice told me I had no right of reply. "Go back to La Fère."

His eyes... God be praised! His eyes...

Those blue eyes told me he was knowingly looking for a punishment, that at that very moment his life was worthless, that no torture would be enough for what he had done, whatever it was.

"May I go with the master?" I insisted, those eyes had scared the living lights out of me. I was sure that if I left him at the mercy of his own devices, my master would take his own life, such was the hatred he felt for himself, a hate which was presented plainly before my eyes.

His hand clung compulsively to the haft of the sword, his hair was stuck to his temples with sweat and every time he breathed all his muscles quivered, as if every involuntary effort to hold on life caused him an indescribable pain. I hold my breath, trying not to exacerbate that feeling that boiled within him, out of fear that that cauldron spilled out and ended burning us both.

I wonder how long that silent fight between us lasted. I didn't know what tipped the balance to what I thought was the most favorable outcome. Be understood that we are speaking of keep him alive. What I do know is that the expression in his eyes, although not completely changed, at least softened enough to stop causing me chills.

"I think I can trust you, you could denounce me before I commit the worst stupidity of my life and you chose to be loyal," my master accepted, shoulders slumped, his face expressionless, but his eyes were haunted and wet. "You're the only person who never hurt me..." He sighed. If the Count ever came close to collapse and pour out his self-pity that was the exact moment. Instead he let me go, pulled himself together, sheathed his precious sword and said: "You can come with me, but you must be completely silent. Understood?"

I nodded, renouncing completely to use my voice, exchanging it for his life and for the pleasure of serving him.

It was such a small price.

...

...It's a shame I couldn't stop my fist.

'This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you'. I heard it from so many people who beat me before this day, but never from the half conscious man who was lying in the ground beneath my shaking body. Maybe I knocked him out, but it was me who was morally exhausted, seized by my self-disgust and hard earned pangs of guilt. The baby was crying inside the castle and his helpless cries sent shivers down my spine.

There was only one way to be forgiven, and that was not going to happen while I gloat over my reproachful distress.

Like many other Parisian nights, I bent down to pass his arm over my shoulder to help him return home. He mumbled something, but I didn't care about it; the only concern in my mind was to keep his hipbone over my own hip to control his gait and my hand in his ribs to prevent him from stumbling on the stairway. The sound of our steps in the hall marked a counterpoint to the baby's cries. Trying to get the Count to his room would be sheer insanity and letting him take care of a baby in his actual situation would be a raving madness; I was very sorry, but the Count had to settle for the drawing-room which was the closest room with some furniture to set down his inebriated dead-weight while I went to see to the boy.

I let his weigh slide from my frame to the big chair. He wasn't completely senseless and tried to stay in his seat; his long, buckled hair rested on a dusty shirt, there was a small trail of blood on the corner of his mouth. I had seen him in worst shape. Our eyes clashed for a moment, his were surprised because I was still there. I had no time for a second round —the boy's cries were driving me crazy— so we had to work it out later. Still, his quick hand took me by the sleeve and stop me.

"Grimaud?"

It was clear that the Count demanded an explanation.

"Later!"

I climbed the stairs in long strides, eager to stop that infernal noise. How could I live in this house if I couldn't stand little children?

I entered the Count's room, the boy was laid in a wet spot, bawling his discomfort and shaking his little fist to the canopy, purple-faced with frustration. This little tableau make me smile, there was something familiar in it, and my smile was wider when I picked him up and he ceased his protests. I tried to change his diaper, but I found myself too ham-fisted for the task. Soon, I had him nude and wrapped on a piece of linen, it was a crude job but at least the child was silent,dry and warm, leaning against my chest, with his left hand balling a bunch of my shirt.

He was his father's son.

I descended the staircase with the baby in my arms and peered into the drawing-room. The master of the house had dozed off in his chair... As far as I could see, things were unraveling just like I suspected they could develop: With all the responsibility over my shoulders.

I went to find a basket full with bed sheets and kicked it to drawing-room. I let the boy snuggle between the clean bed linen, fully aware that Raoul would wet them, but refusing to carry with him all night. I sat besides the fake crib. I was really awake and full of remorse. I could go away anyway, Charlot and his wife would be here in one or two days, I'm sure the Count could manage a couple of days since he was more capable than me to take care of his boy, at least he could change a diaper. My eyes wandered to his sleeping shape, this baby was almost as hard to take for him as the fiasco with his wife. He was right, he'd never tear himself away from a bottle in this situation. He was at the end of his rope. The Count need someone to watch his back or to pick up the pieces after his fall.

That had been my job for years. I had to stay.

I spent a couple of lazy hours between his drunken snores and a baby who insisted on get a hold on my thumb in his sleep. The Count woke up first, apparently the boy was a heavy sleeper since he barely stirred at the racket made by a half-drunk man in a place full of crates and furniture; I let him realize that he was too wasted to take a hike before walking away from the makeshift crib to look him in the eye, what I had to tell the Count was too important for not doing it man to man.

He had returned to his seat and sat with his head in his hands. I was hoping that the hangover would allow him to understand me. I kneel in the floor and he noticed me. His face, bathed in poor moonlight, showed gratitude and mortification. We were just equally proud of the scuffle in which we took part, a gaze exchange was enough to ponder our guilt over the matter.

"Our agreement is beyond repair, isn't it?"

I shook my head.

"Tomorrow everything will be back as it was. I will have your breakfast and your clothes ready. I even heat up his milk." I said to him. "You'll be my master again." I noticed a small glimmer of hope in those eyes filled with alcohol and thought it was better to stipulate very clear rules: "But if you ever get sozzled again, I'll leave. I'll abandon this house so quietly, that you'll never notice when I left it. I swear it by the Cross!"

He didn't answer. My master was a man of few words and that night he had said far too many. His eyes looked at me as if trying to dig deep in my soul to see if I spoke those words seriously and I stared him back.

Then, in silence, he nodded to show that he agreed with my terms.


	3. John 15:15

**SUMMARY:** Thorn between a good job and jealousy sometimes one had to choose what is good for other people and not for us. Charlot POV.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.

**John 15:15  
><strong>by Arithanas

Me and my wife found ourselves at the gates of what locals called the Castle of Bragelonne. The house was not really that impressive once one lived a couple of years in Paris, but the structure, though in need of some care, was nice and bulky. And the land... Lots of forest surrounded the property and for what I saw while we walked to the house, there are some ponds and the Loire for fishing. I couldn't ask for more. Euphrasie, by my side, was all flushed and a little sweaty for the walk carrying her favorite cauldron stuffed with her cooking implements and species. I passed my arm over her plump shoulders and drew her to me in a clumsy hug. The air smelled like smoke, newly removed earth and fresh herbs.

Bragelonne started to feel like home to me.

"At least this house shall have a decent kitchen," she said with a resigned sigh.

She was still worried, she had been that way since Grimaud dawned on us that we spent two year working for a Count and not a wealthy _chevalier_, a fact that he knew for so many years that he seemed like he had forgotten about it. I kissed her temple, wishing that I could get her to see it my way: a Count is more stability than a regular nobleman.

We crossed the decrepit gates into an old neglected courtyard where we found a rather familiar presence. Grimaud was working the gardens bare chested, under the heavy midday sun, the sickle sliced dry grass and shoots indiscriminately, the firm hand place the remains over his shoulder. There was a small concerned scowl in his face —a regular ornament of his features— but there was also something different, although I couldn't pinpoint what was it.

"Maître Grimaud?" I dared to interrupt his work.

Grimaud stopped and stood up tall, his shoulders squared, his skin glistering with sweat. He gave us a small smile and made a sign for us to wait for him a moment longer. While he did that I couldn't but notice the small polished wood cross pendant with the words '_Jean 15:15_' carved in the horizontal bar.

"I never noticed he carried a Cross," Euphrasie said to me on a hushed tone.

"I really hope that that was the only thing you noticed about him today," I replied wryly, a little annoyed by her comment.

"Yes, the only one," my wife was never demure, "I already knew he was younger and more muscular than you..."

I was about to nag her about her impudence but Grimaud whistled and called us out to follow him inside the house, a simple shirt was in his hand. Fortunately, he had that piece of clothing over his back when we join him; I don't like my woman exposed to another man's body, I didn't really care if he was a valet or a Count.

I'm a jealous guy.

When we started to work with them it was pretty obvious that the only thing they were interested in when it regarded to my wife was her cooking, they didn't notice her and that suited me just fine. We had a little room in a house in Rue Saint Honore, we see only Grimaud on Saturdays when he brought out our wages and a list of the dishes his master wanted for the week, that I was to deliver to Rue Ferou. Life was good in Paris.

I was still rambling about my wife and these two men when we stood at the opening of what seemed to be a large room. Grimaud knocked on the door jamb and waited for the permission to enter. That's why we called him _Maître_, he was the only one who know how to manage his way around his master.

"What is it?"

"Charlot and his wife," was the answer given in a coarse voice. He never called me Charles, and neither did the master.

"Thank you, Grimaud. Let them in"

Did I heard that right?

...

Euphrasie waited until I entered the room; she never truly trusted the master, she said the way he looked at her made her uneasy. That big room, —saloon, I thought it was called— was a chaotic scene with chairs covered with sheets and crates opened. The master was busy arranging some books that he produced from a leather case. The shelves were recently polished and were slowly filling with neat groups of leather binded books. We waited there, not wishing to interrupt him in his work.

"Did you have a good trip?" the Count asked, choosing a bunch of tomes. He didn't turn his eyes toward us.

"Yes, _M. le comte_. A happy trip since we both arrived safely."

"Good to know. Charlot, the castle needs a lot of work before we can start to think about the land." A pause, The Count looked over his shoulder but his eyes were too low to see us. "Carpenters and joiners have been sought, but those who are skilled are busy this time of year..."

I tried to follow the speech, but Euphrasie moved by my side and then in front of me. My hand failed to catch her and she get near by the case from where the master retrieved his books. My wife was drawn to the master by something I couldn't see but, by the way she moved, I could comprehend she was elated.

"You are to help Grimaud for the next couple of months; then, we could think about your new responsibilities."

"Yes, _M. le comte_."

I was quick to respond, but that didn't stop the master for doing what he was doing and soon he found himself within a hand-span from my wife's head who, in her knees, spied on what to my untrained eye seemed like a wicker basket.

"He's Raoul..." The voice of our master was kind, and for the first time, he smiled at my wife.

"Aw, Raoul is a cute name for a charming boy!"

Euphrasie never gave our master a look, she was completely enthralled by the boy who extended his arms and let me see his pudgy fingers.

"I'm glad that we agree," his voice returned to his stern tone, "because there is something I want to ask you."

"At your service, _M. le comte_!" I replied, trying to divert his attention from my wife.

"Charlot, I was talking to your wife," The Count faced me. I had his complete attention and it didn't seem like something good. "I'm sure that Grimaud would be grateful of your help."

That was how I was thrown out of the house, without ceremony or an explanation. My wife didn't look to my way, but I knew my Euphrasie; being mindful of her husband was too much to ask for a woman who all her life wanted a baby and who wasn't granted her wish, particularly if she had the chance to make a caress to a child.

...

Later that day, while one of my wife's most famous _ragoûts_ were on the fire and light seems to fail us for work, I sat next to her on the steps of the _perron_. The night would be cold but the cicadas were singing on the forest so days of warmth were still ahead. She had that wicker basket by her feet and was diligently sewing some pieces of cloth. The master and his valet were next to the well, pouring cold water over themselves to wash away the dirt of a workday.

I was tired and in foul mood. Do you know that kind of temper when even the most pleasant bed didn't let you sleep? I was in that mean spirit. For years, I had been used to live by the things the woods could give me; war destroyed my way of life and get us a new one by the side of the Count. Our service for him was a nice, easy life. My only complain was that, in the twenty years we have been married, God never send my wife and me a child.

"Did the Count tell you about the child?" I asked Euphrasie while she placed another thread on the needle.

The bundle of love in question was too busy trying to eat his own hand and kicking the lining sheet. To my chagrin I had to admit that the boy was well-behaved, I only heard him cry once in all afternoon.

"He's doing charity," she said with her sweetest voice and I knew she was lying.

I had to bend to the evidence. My wife was seduced by Bragelonne and his habitants, in front of my face, and without I could do something about it. If course, Grimaud never meant to make love to my wife: he was just working; The Count was more than proper with her, the worst thing he did was to have a boy when we get to his castle, but that was enough. I was just a simple man and my wife was my only treasure...

"We are leaving tomorrow" I said to Euphrasie in my most categorical tone.

"You could go if you want," my wife was never intimidated by me. "I'll stay."

"If I go, you'll go. Aren't you my woman?"

Euphrasie placed her labor in her skirt, her big, red hands took my flustered face and she approached her lips to my lips. She was not a beauty, she had mousy brown hair and her eyes were too little, her rounded body and her constant smell of food denounced what she do for a living but there was not other woman for me.

"Even if you go, I'll always be your woman, Charles," she said to me and she smiled, "But you can't really ask me to left this little angel in the hands of those two..."

Her pudgy but strong fingers made me turn my head to the well. Master and servant were stripped down to their breeches and were scrubbing each other backs in the too intimate scene of two men accustomed to each other.

"Do you fear they are buggers?"

"I'm sure there is nothing improper going between them," my wife said with a little laugh as if she found the idea preposterous, "but one is a soldier, another is a worker. A child needs a woman, this one have none. The Count trust me to care for his boy."

I loved her and not being able to make her a mother was the biggest regret of my life. The Count was offering her a way to soothe her pain. Was I really so hard-hearted to rob her that opportunity?

"So, we'll stay..." I stated, giving up fighting for her. "I don't like being a house servant, but if that makes you happy... Tell me what the Count told you."

"I can't.." She said picking up her labor and standing up. "John 15:15."

"John 15:15?"

"You were never a church goer, Charles," her smile was big and sincere as she picked up the wicker basket with the boy. "Go and wash yourself, and bring those two for dinner, would you?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>_ Euphrasie is a made up name for Charlot's wife. Dumas and Maquet never gave her a name, besides she is just a minor character in the myriad 20YA's little characters. Still, in chapter 13, Raoul brought little Louisa to her when she was hurt, so we can infer that, at last for the Viscount, Charlot's wife is important._

_For those curious, John 15:15 makes reference to the first part of the versicle:"I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you."._


	4. The Unmanly Desire

****SYNOPSIS: ****A sleepless night guarding a sick child brought some introspection about fatherhood and masculinity. Athos POV.**  
>DISCLAIMER: <strong>Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain.

**The Unmanly Desire  
><strong>by Arithanas

_Everybody knows how to raise children,  
>except the people who have them.<br>~ P. J. O'Rourke_

The same bed, in another room, could be as troublesome as a new bed. Grimaud tightened the ropes, fluffed the flock and placed fresh sheet, its pillows were soft and thick with new down-filler, but Athos couldn't find his place among them. Between this paradoxically uncomfortable nest, his plans for Bragelonne's improvement and the distant cries of Raoul, Athos tried his best to sleep.

Sleep always had been some dreadful, difficult experience, since Athos could remember. When was that...? Ah, he must be three or four years when the Count decreed that he was old enough to spend the whole night alone, and he, who was used to sleep clinging to his _nounou_'s underskirt, was so terrified by her absence that he cried his fear and loneliness for days, until the voice which was not to be unheeded chided him for his effeminacy. Years had passed, but Athos was still ashamed by this flaw. Of course, Athos was aware that his short years were an explanation for this behavior; nonetheless, this excuse wasn't enough to redeem himself from the guilt over this misdeed against the all-mighty ideal of male bravery. As time went by the situation remain unchanged, he was an adult now with adult troubles, and sleep was still eluding him.

Raoul cried again. His weak voice in the solitary castle sent shivers through his father's spine.

Raoul was ill. The child cried in a dismayed voice, and the idea of this little one in discomfort, too sick to rest and too tired to fight, was unnerving, to say the least. Charlot's wife said maybe it was nothing, but the last time Athos had his boy in his arms, Raoul was hot and it was obvious that he felt pain when anyone touched his belly. Athos sat in the mattress, letting his bare legs hanging on the bedside. Trying to sleep was futile, he couldn't do it knowing that Raoul was in need. That worrisome fact was gnawing his insides, which of course, clashed with his own upbringing: Indulging any emotion meant to be unworthy of the title of man.

Since Athos was a little boy he knew he had an obligation to be brave, aloof, and stoic. To be a man, like his father before him, he had to be a solid monolith of honorable courage and manly detachment. Women care and worry, and he must tore that weakness from his being, for he was born to be a soldier; it was his duty to harden himself against his fears, his greed and his lust, against his feelings of defenselessness and his need to look after the people who was important to him alike.

He stayed there, unable to decide if he climb down the bed or if he return to his pillows. How did his father manage these situations? As far as Athos could remember, his beloved nanny was with him when he was a toddler, but when he was bereft of her presence, the servants took her place if the need arose. Athos did not know whether to curse his good health or his bad memory, but he couldn't remember his father next to his bed. The only time he remembered something of the sort was during the Battle of Ponts-de-Cé when the surgeon pressed the hot iron into a bullet wound. His father cradled him to keep him still whereas the surgeon did his work and saved his life. He was there, calling Athos' name to keep him conscious.

He had to be there for Raoul.

Athos got up and thrown over a dressing gown over his shoulders, before looking for his breeches and shoes in the dark. He stumbled and groped his way out of his room, annoyed because he would need some months to get used to his new surroundings. As he opened the door, he scolded himself and took note of drilling himself into a quick retreat from that room, he stepped out and tripped over an unseen obstacle.

"_Diable_!" he muttered, his arms broke the fall before he could collide face first with the parquet floor.

Still dazed, he tried to peer around him and found Grimaud settled down across the doorway, like a faithful mastiff. His valet was too exhausted, he never stirred. Almost against his will, a smile came up to Athos' lips at that sight, but his good spirit was short lived, because, as he recovered his vertical, Athos noticed that he needed to look for a suitable bed for his valet or this stubborn Breton would continue blocking his door as his old habits of military servant would die hard.

Another item for his to-do list...

Wandering through this big, rambling house by night gave Athos time to think. Each cracking on the wood annoyed him. The walls showed their cracks quite openly. He had to be careful around the stairs, they are not safe. He was met with a myriad of small reparations that demanded his attention. A man should take charge of this kind of things! By the time he reach the first floor, Athos realized that those are the works in his sphere of competence. He was not meant to take care of a child. It was not pride which prevented him from cradling Raoul in his ailments, it was the way the world was: Men take charge of the life's practical issues!

Athos was about to retrace his steps to his chamber, in his mind he was convinced that that was the right thing to do, but Raoul cried again. His lips thinned to a bloodless line. That innocent, helpless and weak voice tugged his heart with the imperious force of God's commands; his hand clutched the highly ornated newel and his head rested on the finial. Athos keep his eyes closed while he tried to shut away his weakness.

He scorned himself for having grew fond of the boy too soon, but he had to check him. It was the only sensible thing to do. He was in his home. He was his responsibility. Athos couldn't do least for a guest and this was _his son_. That didn't stop his ears from catching the lost echo of his own father's disappointed grunt.

That man had been dead for ten years and his power still towered over Athos' spirit; the constant question his son had was when he would get over it.

With a sigh, he walked towards the kitchen; Charlot's wife's voice, faint with tiredness, was singing a lullaby striving to console the boy, Raoul's cries demonstrated that he was not impressed with her efforts. A quick glance was enough to show Athos that he was not the only one distraught: Charlot was sprawled over a straw truss, with his arm over his eyes, was the living picture of a honest man trying to get some rest amidst the noise; his wife was rocking the baby, seated in a stool by the cold heart, her slumped figure hawked her exhaustion. Raoul, stripped to his diapers, bawled his pain, his face reddened by the fever.

"Is he any better?" Athos asked, stepping into the kitchen.

The good woman was too tired to be surprised by his presence. "He puked out no more, but he can't sleep and is all fussy..."

Athos opened his mouth, but the words that were poured out of it shocked him, "Give him to me, you need your rest."

Still amazed, but in need of sleep, the woman handed him the baby. Athos settled the boy against his shoulder, his hand on the diaper. Raoul was heavy, more than he usually was.

"Here is some chamomile," she said, placing Raoul's cup on his hand, "it's good for his belly, but he don't want to drink it."

"We'll see," was his reply, Raoul was kicking his side as if he tried to climb to his shoulder. "Sleep while you can, I can manage."

Famous last words...

...

Later that night, Athos found himself next to the well, without his dressing gown and seated on a puddle, with a nude, wet Raoul on his thighs. His boy's constant 'whaa whaa' was driving him crazy, but the well's tepid water seemed to calm him down. For a good quarter of hour Athos was trying to conjugate the Spanish verb '_escarmentar_' while he poured water over Raoul's belly, it was the only thing that kept him right-minded. Raoul pouted and complained but finally he changed his blaring cries to a more subdued set of moans.

"You know, Raoul?" Athos mumbled, pouring a little more water over the baby, "your grandfather must be rolling over in his grave, if he can see us."

"Whaa?" Raoul cried again, but he placed his fist on his mouth. That was a good sign.

"Thirsty?" he asked presenting the cup. Maybe he was deceiving himself, but his only chance was trying to reason with the boy.

Raoul moaned again and extended his arm. Not bad for a five month boy. Athos smiled and placed the baby in the crook of his arm and let him drink. While Raoul quenched his thirst, Athos wondered if his own father ever feed him, like he was doing now with Raoul. His finger caressed the high-relief of the cup, there was the simple or field escutcheon with his three chequy silver and sable bands. Athos was sure it was his. His nanny said she received it from _Madame la comtesse_ before placing it on his young hands, the day they parted ways. Somehow it survived his gift-giving spree to Anna, he could had it melted to make her a collar or some stupidity of the sort. It survived, among his things in La Fère, and he was happy for that.

Raoul spat the cup and fussed in his lap. Maybe he had enough. Athos placed the boy against his shoulder, who sighed and nuzzled his neck; his weight was lighter and his skin was cooler now. Athos drank his pure aroma, so young, so unsullied. There were no words to explain how happy he was for having this bastard child in his arms; and he had no way to express it without failing his breeding. Enough to said that the remorse for his weakness in front of his lust was well worth if the world had a Raoul in it.

"And to think you will never call me father..."

Athos would pay gladly anything if he could proclaim Raoul as his son, but his self-deceiving abilities were limited. His family was pretty clear: Bragelonne was a compensation over La Fère, which was his just in name. Such compensation was earned because he caused not further shame to the House of Montmorency. They were not going to take well the fact he had a bastard now, less than a year away from receiving his reward. His only opportunity of keep Raoul in his life was to deny him, as Peter denied Our Lord.

"We better get inside," Athos said, noticing how icy his butt was.

"Puah," Raoul blurted out, his mouth was chewing Athos' collar.

"Glad you concur..."

...

A dish. A silver tankard. A big, scarred hand. A stern face, full of quiet gravity. A voice which matched perfectly with this impassive face and absent, cold eyes.

"I have been informed you asked for me in your last ailment."

How cruel comment! But how deferentially delivered... He was not talking to a child, but to a noble man.

"I did," Olivier admitted, his own plate untouched, his throat choked with a lump formed by the unmanly desire of being loved and pampered when ill. "Please, forgive my weakness..."

...

Was he dreaming? He was not sure. His eyes wandered between the ceiling joists of an unknown hall. He was in Bragelonne, and that was good, even when that that sight reminded him that this house need a good refurbishing. He was not in La Fère, he was not an eight years old who wished to have been born a peasant. He was still his father's son, but God had spared his life to this date and he will let him be the kind of parent he wanted he had.

Raoul kicked in his sleep and missed Athos' crotch by an inch. Any other living being would be in trouble, but his father smiled, placed his hand on that diapered ass and kissed that sweaty brow. The boy still warm, but he was not the small ember Athos received some hours ago. Athos settled his head in the hard throw pillow and fitted his wet ass in the seat of that big divan until he found a comfortable spot. That short nap was more restful than the time spent on his own bed.

"Bah," Raoul called out, lifting his head and watched him as if he was offended by the hustle.

"Precisely," Athos said and tossed his dressing gown over themselves.

"A... pooh..." the boy commented and let his head fall down.

Athos smiled again. The last two months Raoul had given him more reasons to do it than his whole life in Paris. Somehow he had to find a way to be his father, not only legally, but to give him all the things he lacked in his young age...

"God forbid me to speak ill of my own father, Raoul," he murmured, his lips next to that curly hair, "but I vow you shall never be in want of a caress..."

Raoul in all likelihood didn't understood that solemn oath, but his hand got hold on Athos' neck and for a moment, that simple movement felt like a hug.


	5. The Sweetest Treat

**SYNOPSIS:** 1636, Blois. Years of immoderate alcohol consumption took its toll on Athos' health, and he's not a man to endure being on a diet, at least, not without a good reason.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain.  
><strong>AN:** This story takes place after the events related in "First Steps"

****The Sweetest Treat**  
><strong>by Arithanas

"Grimaud, if I wanted someone to tell me what to eat, I would get a wife!" Athos exclaimed when his servant placed a bowl filled with a meatless potage in front of him.

His valet just smiled and took a step back. They were in better terms, but he knew his master's fists were quick.

"Pa?" Raoul called out, he was busy with his own dish. Charlot's wife had served him a tender lamb chop with all its fittings. His boy could be only two years, but he was sensitive.

"Eat, Raoul," he ordered and gave that rebel servant his full attention. "We are having an adult conversation here."

Grimaud hold his gaze, daring him to utter an arbitrary command. Athos had to admit he was seething with ill humor since the physician forbid him to eat meat and that insolent Breton knew it. Grimaud was enforcing that order, and maybe he was doing it to save himself some work but most likely, he was doing it because he worry about his master's health. Athos knew he must comply, the pain in his side sometimes was bad enough to double him up, but his pride didn't allow him to go down without a fight.

"Bread," Athos barked, aware that he must not set a bad example to Raoul.

Grimaud nodded and went to the kitchen.

"Here!" Raoul said, offering him one of his _echaudés_. Charlot's wife always bakes them for him.

"Thank you, Raoul," Athos said, shaking his head. The boy knew his offer was rejected but his eyes asked why. "That is too sweet for me."

"Why?" Raoul asked before taking a morsel of lamb.

"Men don't eat sweets."

"Grimaud do!" Raoul answered back when Grimaud entered the room with a newly baked oat bran loaf.

The valet took good care of serving the bread over Raoul's shoulder, keeping himself at good distance from his master and doing his best to hide his smile.

"Really?" Athos asked, his eyes never wavered from that rascal who dared to undermine the upbringing of his son.

Raoul smiled, nodded and chewed his food thoroughly, oblivious to the fact that he ratted Grimaud out.

...

Athos idled away some hours in his cabinet, quill in hand. He had meant to fulfill this friendly duty for two years, but somehow life keeps getting in the way. Athos wrote some lines for d'Artagnan and Porthos, as for Aramis, there was no way to know in which convent he went to bury himself; maybe his other two friends could give him information about the dear _abbé_. His epistolary labor managed to distract Athos from his whim for meat, but now the letters were done and he noticed the kitchen's perfume. If he waits until tomorrow to send them, he will have ahead some hours of gluttonous revelry. He stood up and walked away from his writing desk, stretching his back. Then, he placed both hands on the windowsill look down until he located Grimaud who was busy carrying wood to the woodshed.

"Grimaud!" Athos called out. The servant looked up. "My horse!"

Once Grimaud signaled that he comprehended his orders, Athos picked up his letters and his hat. An outing to Blois was the perfect way to take food out of his mind. He changed his shoes for his spurred boots and went down enjoying the sound of his steps on the new wood of the stairs, proud of that solid and safe staircase. With his cape tided diagonally, he headed toward the courtyard, but he got snagged by his letters, he looked down and found Raoul clutching the paper with all his might and some big, pleading eyes. Athos read those eyes and knew that the boy was aware of his departure. With a sight, he made a note to make his retreats more quietly in the future.

"I'm going to Blois," Athos explained, extricating his letters from the small fist and placing them in the breast of his doublet. "I'll be back soon..."

"Me!" Raoul insisted, clinging to his breeches.

"But is too hot," he said, trying to find a reason for which the boy should stay. Raoul was sporting his summer shirt adorned with some coal stains: he was playing in the hot-house again. "and you are not properly dressed, Raoul."

Raoul let him go and tried to review his clothes with all the gravity this situation demanded, it was a quick task since he was not yet master of his own body and the shirt was his only cover.

"No shoe?" Raoul asked, his tone was just half-hearted.

"No shoes," Athos confirmed, his inner self prayed that the boy had piddled on them again and that they were wet at the time being.

Raoul pouted and went into the salon. Athos' heart sank, he really didn't want to make the boy felt inadequate but he knew Raoul could make a short trip a whole military expedition; it was not his fault, though, he was just a inquisitive boy. As he saw Raoul's small figure get lost in the corner of the salon, Athos take up his way again, and maybe he could bring him a token of his appreciation when he returned from the post.

Grimaud was not at the side of his horse, but Charlot made up for his absence just well. Athos was climbing the horse back, Charlot laughed heartily.

"What is it, Charlot?" he asked picking up the reins.

"Someone is showing his best, master," the servant signaled the main door and Athos gave an annoyed glance at that direction.

By the _perron_, a small white figure struggled with a linen shirt. Raoul, with his shoes in the wrong foot, was trying to do his best Sunday shirt, the one they always place on his back to take him to the church, but he failed to undo the laces and the lower half of his body was in plain sight. What a self-willed, little man!

"Bring him here, Charlot," Athos commanded, resigned to carry him to Blois.

The servant chuckled the whole way, until he placed the linen cladded figure at his master's horse's withers. Raoul, helped by the old man, took his head out of the garment and beamed his father a big smile.

"Me? Bluah?" the young boy asked for the confirmation of his success.

"Yes, you are going to Blois," Athos confirmed, his hands tying the laces while Charlot changed and laced the shoes. "Now, be good and hold that mane tight."

It was not the first time his horse carried them both, and that was an intelligent beast, as soon as he felt the weight at its withers he pick up a slow canter. Athos masked his disappointment because he wanted to go across the fields but that was not safe for that little boy who smiled and encouraged the beast to hurry up.

As they crossed the gates, Athos' eyes stumbled on the silent and grim figure of Grimaud. They exchanged a glance and a challenge was issued in front of that trip to temptation land.

_No meat_, said the servant.

_Make me_, said the master.

...

Athos had time to think while the horse carried them to Blois.

Giving up the wine was the best choice in this life, he was sure. Athos felt like bursting with energy and his head was clearer; it was a shame the rest of his body didn't agree. Each jolt of his mount remembered him his swollen liver. For the last week that pain was his constant companion, and his mouth was filled with the bitter taste of bile, but he surely wouldn't mind it. It was Grimaud who noticed the small drops of blood in his shirt and called a surgeon. The physician ruled out meat for consumption, at least until his liver returned to its normal state and the Count stop feeling sick. This food regimen annoyed him beyond measure. He was not starving, Charlot's wife knew how to make mouthwatering vegetables and there was enough bread and fruits at Bragelonne but he missed meat. It was his main food since he remembered.

Blois was in sight the belfry called people to end their work day and the air was filled with roasted meats and stewed birds that were meant for today's dinner. Had Grimaud spared him that last insolent gaze, Athos wouldn't mind about it, but now, all he was thinking about was meat. It was just a matter of discipline; he had to harness himself against his desire. Raoul, at the withers, signaled him the town people and the shops with delighted exclamations. For him, everything was new and exciting and that made his father smile.

"Let's put this letters at the post, Raoul," Athos said while he alighted.

Raoul clung to his neck a little, before letting himself being placed on the packed dirt. Once in the ground, Raoul surveyed his environment with his ever avid curiosity; Athos beckoned him to remain by his side, the boy was not used to be out of Bragelonne and, for a brief moment, Athos was terrified at the thought of lost sight of him, before he stroked it as nonsense. It helped a lot that Raoul clutched his breeches at that precise moment.

Athos minded his business at the post. The signals for the delivery to Paris were simple. Last time he knew about d'Artagnan, he was living at Rue Tiquetonne under the sign of "La Chevrette"; Porthos, on the other side, was not as easily traced, and Athos and the post master spend some minutes exploring a map of the Picardy until they found Vallon and agreed on a fee. Athos counted the spare change on his purse, roughly a couple of pistoles, enough to buy him and Raoul a nice dinner on a tavern, away from that self-fancied Cerberus into which Grimaud had turned himself. The furtive smile on his face waned at the very moment he realized the lack of a little hand on his clothes.

He took some moments to stop his frantic heartbeats. Raoul couldn't be far, he was too small, on the other hand he was used to replace that lack of height with some of his unbounded energy and his stubborn head, he could be anywhere! Athos was sure he earned a surprised look from the post master, but he didn't care; Blois was not Paris, but a kid like his could get in several dozens of troubles in a brink.

He tried to be inconspicuous, of course a man like him looking for a child could be an odd sight in every city of France; besides a nobleman should be berating a servant for his lack of competence and not launching himself to a desperate search. He suffered pangs of guilt at his attention paid to his meat loving ways instead of at taking care of the child. Time was pressing, before too long the town would be engulfed in shadows at the night was falling.

...

It took him the good part of an hour, but he found that mischievous boy. Raoul was covered in dirt, with both of his hands placed on a shop window, practically drooling over the pastries and the cookies. One of his shoes was missing, his hair was matted and clinging to his temples, but for Athos that was not an street urchin: he was the most beautiful angel who ever roamed the face of Earth.

"Raoul!" Athos called out, his hand on the pommel of his sword to keep it away from his chest.

The kid looked away from the desserts and gave him a wide, dirty smile.

"_Pa!_" Raoul exclaimed with the joyous sound a confident child.

The boy ran to him with his arms wide open, Athos saved him half of the distance, but his ill temper was mounting to his head, he had this clear image of taking Raoul by the arm and spank his little bottom until the boy would know how horrible was to scare someone like that. But he was too relieved and was too consistent with himself to do that: he just picked him up and pressed him against his chest.

"Do me the favor of never wander around like that, Raoul..." he said aloud, marveled by how sensible and calm his voice sounded.

"Eh?" Raoul was engaged on trying to get away from those iron arms.

"You scared me, boy!" Athos exclaimed, letting him go, before his pain and anger made him carry out the scenery his mind had concocted.

Raoul saw his face but the worry about his strained expression was placed on the background, he had more pressing issues to communicate and his hand made the sign of 'hungry'.

"I suppose, and maybe you want me to buy you something?"

The boy was oblivious of the sarcasm in his guardian's voice; he took Athos' hand and dragged him toward the shop. Raoul pointed toward a particular confection and raised his pleading eyes towards the adult who was still too stunned to think clearly.

"Plea..." Raoul insisted, hanging out his lower lip.

The ex-musketeer was confused, Raoul certainly didn't deserve a reward for running away, and Athos was still thinking about a more substantial dinner; but those pleading eyes remember him that he never had to beg his father for anything material... let alone for a miserable _beignet_.

"All right," Athos said, taking Raoul's hand, "I'll buy it for you..."

_Besides_, Athos thought as he entered the shop, _meat is not good for me_.

...

It was late when they returned to Bragelonne; Athos had to wash Raoul in a fountain because his presentation was really lamentable. He had to buy him new shoes, but that was a worry for another day, the important thing was his boy was safe and clinging to his neck, grateful for the adventure and the ride. What would be of Raoul the day he wouldn't be here? Athos knew he had to take care of himself because Raoul need him; it doesn't matter if he had to survive only on bread and water.

Athos called out and Charlot came hurriedly to open the gate. Raoul stirred and blinked to the light.

"Home..."

"Yes, Raoul, we are home." Athos whispered, guiding the horse through the gates.

"Good," the boy hugged him and kissed him under the chin. "Love ya..."

Athos was flaunting the silly smile provoked for that kiss when he handed the boy to the plump wife of Charlot. He alighted and handed the reins to a gruff-looking Grimaud. There was suspicion and judgment in those eyes.

"What's for dinner?" Athos asked, brushing his doublet non-nonchalantly. "I'm hungry."

It was so good to still being able to surprise his valet.

"Save that silly face, Grimaud," he commented out handed, "I'm not a child..."


	6. The Secrets of the Service

**SYNOPSIS:** 1636, Soissons. Mail is a great invention, it approach people and speed notices, sometimes more quickly than they should be spread. Mousqueton POV.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER: <strong>Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain.

**The Secrets of the Service  
><strong>by Arithanas

_Confidentiality is a virtue of the loyal,  
>as loyalty is the virtue of faithfulness.<br>~Edwin Louis Cole_

Mousqueton, although he still did not like his name, was happy in his position. The mistress was a tough boss, but she had her own maid and the house had a lot of personnel and he was the immediate go-between between the service and the masters. This position had a lot of advantages, for instance, he had the keys of the pantry and never lacked a snack whenever he wanted.

In this way of living, it was his responsibility to see the mail safely delivered on the post and he could do some skulduggery to send his own letters. Not that he wrote a lot, he occasionally corresponded to Grimaud, he had been his mentor in Paris and now and then they share news and some secrets of the trade. Last time, the silent Grimaud chided him for stealing _sous_ to write him, that was his character and Mousqueton enjoyed his reconvention, knowing very well that those two word were a full rant on his part.

Mousqueton was setting the table, smiling and thinking about some oddities in his correspondence. Grimaud was a regular corresponsal and he always wrote as he speak: not much and bluntly. The last three or four missives were even more laconic than he usually was, and his ideas were not as clear, for once why did his master need two bed-chambers? And why in heavens Grimaud complained of re-fitting shirts? His master had reached his full height and he was not to grow anymore. The good Norman chuckled at the idea of M. Athos putting on some weight, it wouldn't be too far-fetched if he kept drinking his share and more. Mousqueton was certain something was happening in Bragelonne, but that secret would never come by Grimaud's hand, that man was loyalty embodied.

The barking of dogs announced the arrival of the head of the house and Mousqueton hurried his labor, the mistress wouldn't be happy if they have to wait to serve the master. He put the knife and the spoons and was sure the dishes show no speckle before ran to the door. He arrived just in time to see his master spun around his mistress and kiss her like she was the prettiest wench in the tavern, of course she was not, years hadn't been too kind with her and she showed every one of them; Mousqueton, however, had to concede her that she did everything in her hand to gave the best of the presences and, sometimes, she managed to be a pretty sight.

"My faith! I'm hungry like a wolf. What did my little wife cook for me?" Mousqueton heard his master ask. His big hand was petting her hair. "A scrawny fowl?"

"Just a dish of haricot beans, my big, mighty husband," she replied, with a smile.

"With a few bones of mutton?"

Marriage always had been a secret territory, just a thing for the two of them. Mousqueton never understood that, but it was not the first time he witnessed when they exchange those phrases. Regardless of Mousqueton's lack of understanding, it was a pretty thing to see and that made them happy. Could Grimaud had been witnessing something similar in Bragelonne? That could explain his reticence although it would be a real surprise if M. Athos decided to give women another chance.

"Just the beans," the mistress said and sought Mousqueton with her eyes as if she was asking if everything was ready.

"The table is set!" Mousqueton announced, following his mistress clue. The last seven years he had been specially adept to follow her orders.

At the sound of his voice, the kitchen staff poured from the kitchens with serving plates filled with fish and a couple of roasted pheasant that M. Porthos had hunted early in the morning. This superb recipe was in the good company of a chicken soup and baked potatoes. M. Porthos was a gentleman and drew the lady's chair before taking his place and digging in his soup dish with gusto. They always eat in silence, that was tradition, and Mousqueton uncorked a bottle for the well stocked cave and poured the tawny liquid on metal cups with a smile.

Mousqueton was ready to oversee the serving of the desserts when one of the boys, who work as a kitchen assistance, made some calling signs behind their master's backs. Something had happened and required his presence. With a little reverence, Mousqueton ran to the kitchen.

"What is it?" Mousqueton asked in a hushed tone, amidst the fumes and aromas of the kitchen. His hand grabbed a small bread.

"There is a man at the gates, _maitre_," the boy answered, mimicking his tone. "He said he's from Vallon."

That could be bad news and Mousqueton rushed to the gate while munching the bread. Since his master and his mistress left the paternal house the news from the family where few and sporadic. A young man was sitting out of the gatekeeper's house and his posture has too relaxed to be a bird of ill omen. He composed his features and smiled with all the politics of the times.

"Is there anything wanted, my friend?"

"Are you M. Mousqueton?" The man asked with an insolent tone.

"If you have doubts, you can go back to where you came from," Mousqueton replied. He was not mincing words with those rubes.

His words must convince the man because he stood up and watched him more closely.

"My apologies. M. Edmé said you had no patience," he explained himself, a hand in his hip. "He said you used to receive correspondence at the master's house."

"That's correct," Mousqueton admitted, but that was almost a year ago. Grimaud and Planchet had been warned of his change of address. "I used to."

"The wax used to seal your letters, which color it was?"

Mousqueton noted that it was a test, maybe a stray letter was found? He had all the letters Planchet sent him, they checked the last time Mousqueton was in Paris, but with his mute friend he could never be sure.

"Cobalt blue," was his response. That was the color Grimaud's master always used and his servant was quite liberal with it.

"Oh, then this is your correspondence," the man said offering him an envelope with a seal stamped in cobalt blue wax. "M. Edmé was worried it wasn't yours."

That was odd, Grimaud would never paid the tax for the envelope nor dare to use his master's signet ring, he usually fold his missive's corners and smear sealing wax to hold it. Mousqueton took it and turned it over, the mystery was easily solved: It wasn't for him, this letter was sent to his master as those Gothic black characters stated. That bunch of boors could have realized the situation if they bothered to learn how to read!

"Come to the house," Mousqueton invited, it was better to have this fool near if his master would wish to reply this letter, and he most certainly will. "We will serve you a bit for your troubles."

With that peasant at his tow, Mousqueton returned to the kitchen and noticed the desserts were already served, maybe this was a good time to present the correspondence. Once he left the messenger at the cares of the kitchen staff, Mousqueton took a plate, placed M. Athos' letter in it —as the mistress wanted—, and went to the dinning room. His master was busy finishing off an almond and honey cake that his wife liked so much to bake for him.

"Master, the correspondence," Mousqueton announced, presenting the plate and enjoying beforehand the pleasure of his master at getting news from one of his friends.

A man starving wouldn't pound to a piece of bread as readily as my master did when he saw the arms that adorned the missive. His hand tore open the envelope and he extract the couple of sheets covered with neat calligraphy. The cake was promptly forgotten, and Mousqueton couldn't be happier.

"Mousqueton," his mistress called him out. She was in her place, bitting a peach and her countenance didn't bode well. "A word."

"Yes, madame?"

"How much is the amount for the delivery?"

The servant stared her in disbelief. Sometimes it was painfully obvious that Madame du Vallon never rubbed shoulders with people of quality. M. Athos would never sent a letter without the proper freight paid in advance. He was too noble to suppose any person worth of his time and though was unable to paid a triviality like the carriage; also, he would never burden a friend with a payment he could do with ease.

"The messenger didn't say a word about it, madame."

"Probably there is none," M. Porthos had the envelope in one hand and the letter in the other. One could tell if it wasn't because he had to contain himself, he would hold them to his heart. "Athos never gave much thought to those trifles, my angel."

"I suppose a man with a child couldn't spare enough attention to mind his manners."

A _child_? Mousqueton was dumbstruck for a moment. How come that woman came to that astounding conclusion?

"My dear angel, you are the light of my life, but never dare to talk bad about my friends!" M. Porthos stood up and wavered the pieces of paper at her with an angry motion."Athos never meant no harm! Since he was the one who wanted to send his news it was just polite on his end."

Any other time, Mousqueton could try to appease that lover's fight that was about to be unleashed in it's full force. Those are usually loud but short lived, and a nuisance for all the service. This time he was not so inclined, in his master hand was the evidence of his mistress' sharp eyes. A simple smear of charcoal in the back of the pages: four fingers and part of a palm. It didn't belong to a man or to a woman, they are far too small. The envelope made impossible that someone from the country left them there: That little hand came from Bragelonne!

Mousqueton had to fight against the silly laughter that bubbled inside him. M. Athos with a child! That idea was beyond belief!

"Not in front of the service, my dear _ox_," madame du Vallon said in a controlled whisper, trying to save her ammunition for the real charge.

The weight of his master's eyes was immediately felt over Mousqueton's head, and he realized that he was in the most inconvenient position: with his hands over his mouth to hold down the laughter. That was hardly a dignified stance.

"Mousqueton, go and laugh elsewhere!" M. Porthos commanded, his hand waved the letter and the smear was apparent again.

Before he couldn't hold himself back, Mousqueton made a reverence and left the room. Once the doors where closed behind him, the good Norman ran to his attic apartment, he had to write Grimaud immediately because that damned mute was the only one who could uncover the true.

...

Mousqueton put that missive to the post by means of that simpleton who brought M. Athos letter, and then, he went on with his day, trying to be unobtrusive. If the masters had a serious fight the best bet was to be beneath notice. He encouraged the rest of the service to be irreproachable to please the mistress and save the master some troubles.

The master dinned alone that night, for madame du Vallon alleged an splitting headache. Mousqueton couldn't be fooled, she was punishing good M. Porthos for having friends that didn't fit her frame of mind. It was always a good thing that M. Porthos never lose his appetite and since it was just the master, Mousqueton burdened himself with the service. It was almost like the old days, but the table was better stocked.

"Do you need anything else, master?" Mousqueton asked, presenting the bottle of Spanish wine that they opened that night.

"No, thank you," M. Porthos said with a sigh, it was obvious that he missed his wife's presence because he returned to his old habits and his doublet was completely open. "I had news from Athos today. I'm sure you noticed it."

"Yes, master. Wasn't it a nice surprise?"

A nod, and then his master took the whole bottle.

"He said he had been otherwise engaged with his new estate. Bragelonne it's called, another countship."

"Oh... Does he have a new house?" He tried his best to act the fool, Grimaud had been slipping bits of information about that great project called Bragelonne for years.

"It's not in Athos' nature of to share his life so willingly, _morbleu!_ his affairs should be fairly tangled for him to remember me."

"I don't think so. M. Athos was always fond and deferential to you, master."

"He was a real friend, wasn't he?" M. Porthos asked, with his feet on the table, one of those habits of unruly soldier that his wife hated with all her soul. He raised the bottle and drank from the neck. "He was a little keen on the bottle, that didn't prevent him from being a real gentleman, though. I miss him, and d'Artagnan, and Aramis. My little wild cat hate my cronies' guts and it had been years since I saw them..."

"No, master, the mistress had her feathers ruffled because M. Athos paid the fee."

M. Porthos said his servant with an skeptical look. "Do you think so?"

"Most likely. She takes pride in paying for everything, just like M. Athos does."

"I'll make Athos stop paying for his letters."

"And you'll offend M. Athos..."

"_Peste!_ That will be a trouble!"

With all the candor he could muster, Mousqueton said: "I could take the fee..."

The idea visibly bloomed in M. Porthos' mind and Mousqueton congratulated himself as his master's smile grew bigger. That would make Grimaud more at ease, because he wouldn't be stealing, he would be taking the money with the blessings of his master.

"Yes, you could take the fee and use it as you find suitable."

"But, master," Mousqueton faked his embarrassment beautifully, "that would be stealing from your wife!"

"No, you will be doing me a service: Peace at home is priceless!" M. Porthos rose from his chair with a big smile, his hand placed the bottle on the table: "I'll inform my little flower that my friend will never send another paid letter!"

"That will make her really happy, master!" Mousqueton assured him with a nod, but an idea came to his mind and stopped him before he left the room. "Master?"

"What is it?"

"Could the mistress be right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could M. Athos have a child in his home?"

"Fie! Athos couldn't bear to be next to a woman long enough to save his own life, let alone make her a baby !"

His hearty roar of laugh was loud enough to make the candelabra dance on the table. His laugh was contagious and Mousqueton let himself being carried away in the shared elation until one of the maid came to see if they were drunk. The look on the poor girl was enough to ensure the fit regain its strength and the renewed howls continued until they had to stop because their sides were weak and their breath was short.

"You know something, don't you?" M. Porthos asked once the burst of mirth passed.

For a moment, Mousqueton was stunned at that disarming and blunt question. He knew he had several irons in the fire, there was no way to prove that hand print belonged to M. Athos' child. Bragelonne could have a maid with a child, or maybe the post master had a little boy to help him in his labor. It was certain that Grimaud complained about some things that made him suspect his mistress was right, but he couldn't betray his friend's trust.

"Master, I would never let the secrets of your house transpire beyond it's walls," Mousqueton said with deliberate slowness. "Could Grimaud do less for M. Athos?"

M. Porthos watched him, an eyebrow raised, and a smile curving the side of his mouth.

"Athos was right. The service always knows more than they admit," M. Porthos said slapping his big hand on Mousqueton's back. "Keep your secrets, you rascal, because I have a pending reconciliation to handle and that's more interesting and important than your conversation."

"Good night, master," Mousqueton said with a smile, seeing how he climbed the stairs to his chamber.

While Mousqueton cleared the table, he allowed his mind dwelt in the possibilities. Oh, this idea could keep his mind busy for days and that only could do him good because his letter would be in Bragelonne in five days and Grimaud was not used to reply his correspondence in a hurry.

It would be hard to wait for this little piece of gossip!


	7. Just like him

**SUMMARY:** Parenthood is never easy, being a father without a mother complicate the things further. Address discipline could be hurtful, if the father resent his own childhood. What can a servant do in this situation? Grimaud POV.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> This is a work of fiction. The author does not condones or support child or domestic abuse, but she cannot forget that those where part of the customs of the time. Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.

**Just Like Him****  
><strong>by Arithanas

_All pain is a punishment, and every punishment is inflicted__  
><em>for love as much as for justice.<em>  
><em>~ Joseph De Maistre

The children ran from the kitchen while I took the tray that Charlot's wife had prepared with the tea and some slight meal. The fine silver mug with the crest of La Fère was brimmed with hot water and the tea ball was packed with the herbs that I had selected: borage, melisa and rosemary. As usual. I was just going to bring tea to the master of the house, a work that was part of my duties, but in her eyes I saw that I was overstepping my bounds: The master had not asked for a cup of tea.

A part of me was angry because she looked at me that way. I knew the master much better than she; he trained me for years with the explicit purpose that none of his needs remain without satisfaction. I had not spent more than twenty years of my life with him without learning how to recognize the signals of his behavior. I knew the sound of his footsteps, I knew what those long walks with the heels banging against the floorboard, I understood what the sudden silence in his cabinet meant.

At this time, he needed an infusion with herbs from his kitchen-garden; herbs he had ordered me grow and learn about. He needed that cup of herbal tea, even though he would not have asked for it. Another part of me was resigned and willing to accept a blow from his hand, in the event that my instincts were wrong and, in fact, the master was busy with his affairs and my presence was a nuisance. Without a doubt, my desire to please him would not give me a moment's peace if I ignored the warning signs that were so evident. Charlot's wife was very fond of the master, but she never understood these signals and I had not enough words to explain to her the reasons for my actions. So I did my best to emulate the impassive facade of the Count and I thanked her with a brief nod before leaving the kitchen.

The cabinet of the Count was located next to his bedchamber, on the second floor, a short distance from the back stairs. It was a small room for his favorite books, his desk and a armchair. It was his refuge in the house, a place to meditate, to manage his assets, to answer correspondence, and to escape from his little son from time to time. Nobody could go in there without his express permission, including Raoul. Every rule had an exception; In this case, the exception was me. But still, it was hard to take advantage of the license to cross that threshold. I knew him and knew how much he liked being alone and at ease, perhaps that's why he granted me permission in first place. I stood in front of the door and I took a deep breath before knocking. The worst that could happen was that I had to return to the kitchen with that blasted cup of tea.

"Come in!" vouchsafed him with a serious voice.

My hand turned the knob and my hip pushed open the door. I closed the door behind me with a slight kick. It was more comfortable than trying to enter with a tray balanced on one hand; I was not twenty year old anymore. The Count was sitting in his chair, both feet on the footstool, he did not even tried to pretend he was reading a book, his eyes were glued to the portrait of his father with the Order of the Holy Ghost over the mantelpiece; his eyebrows did not move a line when he noticed the herbal tea in my hands, he only made a slight movement with his hand to put it on the desktop that was within reach of his arm.

He was in a brooding mood, which was really obvious: slightly furrowed brow, hand on his cheek, the index finger tapping his temple, long curly hair, still quite black, on the shoulders. I knew that he was reproaching himself for something, he always do it when he assumed that position and when he stopped talking, and his self-loathing was building up inside him like a dark tide.

"Thank you for the tea," he murmured, the words were like metal spikes, by the difficulty that they came from his mouth.

"A good servant does not need a command, only a hint," I taunted, repeating his training axiom.

I felt the weight of his blue eyes on me, he was considering something, I was sure of it. Years ago, when I felt that same look I could have been afraid that he sends me to find something stronger. The wine had always been his cure and his punishment, but it was no longer a threat to him; since the arrival of master Raoul, if you want accuracy. I thought it was strange that he was not in the salon with his boy on his lap, in recent years that was his favorite way to dispel those gloomy fits. I gave him enough time for me to order something else, but as he preferred to go back to the contemplation of the portrait, I just made a bow and headed for the door as slowly as I could. I heard him lift the mug and take the first sip and while I was extending my hand to the doorknob I heard him said:

"I am just like _him_..."

How, in heaven's name, did he manage to cram so much anger, frustration and blame in such a small sentence?

...

All started after the mid-day meal with a small domestic incident.

Raoul had succeeded in getting brashly into the kitchen and he managed to put his little hands in the cookie tin that the Count had bought for him from his last trip to Orléans. Obviously the cook was not pleased with the fact that the young master decides on the resources of her kitchen and she seized the aforementioned object.

Blaring ensued.

Not that I did not expect that Raoul decided to threw a tantrum to get what he wanted, in that he was his father's son. Not that the Count was prone to them now, but as a child, of course he was! What surprised me was that he was so vocal in his outburst. I was in the stables, overseeing the cleaning of the stalls when I heard his cries. At first I thought the child was hurt, so urgent was the emotion in his voice, and I ran into the kitchen with a head full of hundreds of minor accidents that could endanger his life. I imagined him bleeding or covered with burns and I tried not to think of the anguish of my master if the slightest misfortune fell on that angelic head. When I opened the kitchen door, I found a weird scene: The child was sitting on the floor, banging his heels against the packed dirt, his fists against his chest, shedding big tears as he screamed like a pig in the slaughterhouse; his little summer shirt was dirty with dust but he was essentially unharmed.

That child would not be as scathe-less if the house staff, who huddled around him, dared to do what their eyes said they wanted to do. That was: spank his little ass until he had something to cry for. I cannot say I did not agree with them, but this child was the master's boy, and I was not sure he approved us to discipline his offspring; not even to stop the noise. Fortunately, the Count appeared in the kitchen, his face promised a severe punishment for the daring person who dared to build such uproar. Raoul felt his entry and he locked his eyes on his father before redoubling his cries, with the assurance he had that the master could never deny his child what he wanted.

This boy was far from knowing his father.

The Count took a deep breath, waved the people off and he knelt before the child who would not stop bawling for his life. He just had to say a word for that noise to cease completely.

"Silence"

He did not even raise his voice. Raoul shut his mouth and stared at him with moist eyes. I think the idea that his favorite adult would not bend to his will did not fit in his head. The Count stood up and extended his hand towards the child, the order was clear. Raoul almost instinctively obeyed.

"You and I, _M. le Vicomte_," he began, leaving the kitchen with the boy in tow. "We have very serious things to talk about ..."

In the kitchen there were only Charlot, his wife and I. Since I was in the kitchen, I asked for a mug of beer, and whiles the good woman was pouring it, we heard a loud blow over our heads.

"Jesus! He will kill the little boy!," said Charlot's wife, frightened by the idea.

Women are such melodramatic bunch. That idea seemed ridiculous to me and that was confirmed by the silence that followed that first hit. It was more likely the Count had given vent to his frustration by slamming a door than by hitting the child. I, who had been the recipient of his blows for years, knew he would never beat his son.

A courier that came knocking at the door drew my attention of this little drama. A letter from Paris was the perfect excuse for me to know what happened in the Count's cabinet. I showed up at his door and informed him about the letter. He opened the door and received the delivery. Sitting in a corner, with the footstool as a bench, Raoul looked at me with a face full of boredom. The bow I did was more to hide my smile than to point to my master that I was retiring. I was sure that Raoul was safe with his father, but knowing that I am right always put me in a good mood. I was about to return to the stables where one of the chambermaids asked me to help her hang clean curtains and thus, I was distracted again. Later, I returned to my work when I heard the voice of the child, higher than usual, from inside the cabinet. Apparently he had learned nothing.

"Those were my cookies!" demanded the little rascal to his father. "Those were my gift!"

In Bragelonne, the rule was never heard behind closed doors. My master had his reasons. But in times like these I did not feel in Bragelonne, but in La Fère, where M. Gédéon sent me find out what was happening. The old training always lasts longer than the new one, and I have to admit that I could not get rid of my old habits; I find them very useful in my work.

"And this is how you should repay my gift, Raoul?" asked the Count, his voice was sober, perfectly controlled, but hurt. "With theft and scandal?"

I could only imagine the scene, but I knew I was not mistaken. The father had prohibited the cookies, as punishment, Raoul felt removed of something of his own, not his privileges. That sentence was clear, the boy's misconduct was not acceptable and if I could feel his word hurting me, the child could only feel their sting worse. This time, Raoul truly began weep, ashamed of his behavior. First came a few choked sobs, then some tears and moans he could not control. I heard the child burst into tears and his steps toward the Count. I shrugged my shoulders and retired to my work, for I knew everything would be fine. The child was not hurt, maybe the reprimand was too strong, but he would survive and he might learn to behave better in the future.

I had things to do in the courtyard...

...

That was the reason why the Count had been walking for over an hour in his cabinet, because he made his child cry.

"You are not like him," I assured him, removing the hand from the doorknob.

My master would never be like the Old Count, he had too much class to beat a child until the boy begged him to stop. He looked up from his mug, he saw me but he did not understand me. If he were like his father, I would have had to strap the boy's wounds up, instead of bringing tea to his cabinet. It was his job to discipline the boy, it was hard, but he did it very well. The Viscount was out playing with Blaisois, he was not injured or hiding in his room in order to conceal the bruises; perhaps the boy had some regrets but that just would help him to improve his behavior.

"Proof?" I offered, pointing to the window of his study.

Once my master started brooding, he was difficult to motivate. It took time to make him understood that he should rise from his chair and look out the window, but he did it. He put his hands on the windowsill and looked out, as I asked him to do. Raoul was sitting on the swing I did for them, Blaisois pushed him and those two were having a good time; that mischievous pair always enjoyed their playtime. It was difficult to find a better argument to say the child was fine and that he was a good father.

"What is he doing?" he asked with an air of disbelief.

"Being a kid," I replied, not believing how obtuse he could be. "A happy one"

"Barefooted?" the Count insisted raising his hands in exasperation. "Whom does he think he is? A peasant's son?"

I tried to contain my laughter, but it was impossible. In some things he surely was like his father. He looked shocked, like he could not believe my audacity, but then made the sign to continue. He smiled, shaking his head; he realized that his questions were almost stupid. Raoul was only three and was too young to know better. He did not laugh with me, but I felt that his gloomy mood had left him.

"I guess I'll have to check that his feet are clean before tucking him up," he said moving around to the desk to take the mug. "Thank you, Grimaud"

I nodded.

"It was my pleasure, _M. le Comte_"


	8. A Ball of Social Nicieties

**SUMMARY**: 1637, Blois - Écouen. Storm clouds are forming in the horizon of Athos' new happiness.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.

**A Ball of Social Niceties  
><strong> by Arithanas

The acute shriek of a boy resounded in the walls of Bragelonne and little feet stomped in the saloon floor; the sound of an overturned furniture and some heavy hurried footsteps in the parquet. This was just a another Sunday evening in Bragelonne.

The saloon was completely a shambles, the count and his ward were chasing each other around the furniture, in their shirtsleeves, playfully; Athos, playing the fool, feigned to search for Raoul around the chairs and tables, and the boy, sure of being hard to see, tugged his clothes and laughed aloud every time Athos let out a small cry of surprise. A father and a young son sharing a playful moment together, but this was about time to finish it and Athos lunged to pin the small boy to the carpet, his hands extended, his fingers searching Raoul sides.

"No tickles!" Raoul begged, trying to roll on the carpet, "Please, _pa_!"

Raoul's body was wreaked with the titillations of a good tickling session, his belly undulated and he was flailing his arms up and down among bursts of laughing; Athos simper with him, but his eyes never failed to search for the signals of distress on the boy. When both were approaching to the thin line between game and torture, Athos quited the tickling and sat of the floor with the euphoric boy in his lap. Raoul laughed, gasped and snorted for a while before resting his weight against Athos' chest.

"Better?" Athos asked, taking the boy's hair out of his eyes.

"No," Raoul said pretty seriously, squirming in his arms and placing his feet in the empty space between his godfather's legs to see him in the eye.

"Why?"

"I want to get even!" Raoul said and pushed Athos away, who obediently fell flat in the carpet. "Tickles!"

The little avenger straddled the adult's midriff and used his little fingers to attack Athos' sides and armpits. Athos was never ticklish, but Raoul tried so hard that it seems cruel not to gave the child the opportunity to revenge his wounded pride. He wriggle under Raoul's scarce weight, feigning a laughing fit until the boy took pity on him and knocked it off. The boy laughed and sat in his chest with a wide grin. Athos just lay there, sprawled in the carpet, enjoying the moment. He really liked these afternoons with Raoul.

"You all right?" Raoul asked, worried by his stillness.

"Wonderfully!"

"Good," Raoul rested his weigh over his chest, curled up like a pup.

For some moments, the world was restricted to this boy and this carpet, and Athos couldn't ask for more.

...

Once the night fell, they went to the dinning room and Athos let Raoul to bless the table; he was being hellbent set on that little ritual since the priest came to eat with them. Grimaud presented the side of soft pork with their garnishes and a couple of letters with a disturbing seal imprinted in the sealing wax. Raoul was too busy chewing his dinner to notice the distressed expression in Athos' face while he read that piece of paper and signaled some commands to the ever silent Grimaud.

Maybe that was for the best.

When they finished their dinner, Athos took Raoul to the salon and sat him on his lap, instead of carry his boy to his room and tuck it in his bed, as was customary. Raoul was a little startled, but cuddled up to his godfather in the dark salon. Athos smiled and caressed that beloved head with long strokes. Raoul responded to his touch and nuzzled his belly, with the confident touch of a well loved child.

"I got mail," Athos started to talk, his hand never stopped grazing the boy. "It was an invitation to my aunt's birthday..."

"What's an aunt?"

"My father's sister," Athos answered, this was not the time to explain the boy the complexities of his family tree. "She is an important person to me. I have to go to her party."

"May I go?"

"Your presence was not required."

Athos had not heart to tell the boy his family explicitly ordered to left his child at home. He was still seething for the colorful epithet written in that piece of paper. That word was always offensive when it was addressed to him, he couldn't bear the insult when it was thrown at his mother, because they had no proof. When they used it to describe Raoul, Athos found it outrageous.

"Don't go!" Raoul's hand clutched the shirt.

"I must go. It's a long trip and she's and elderly lady."

"Stay!"

"I can't, Raoul. I must obey."

Raoul hold Athos tight, he wouldn't let him go willingly, his tears were poured on Athos' shirt. Athos kept caressing his side, squeezing the boy tenderly against his body.

"Be good. I will bring you a gift, Raoul."

"I don't want no gift," Raoul sobbed, burying his face in Athos' shirt. "I just want you to come back!"

"I promise to you I'll return right back here. Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

"When you wake up tomorrow, I won't be here."

"So soon?"

"I have little time. Would you be good?"

"Yes."

"Try to obey Grimaud. I'll feel better if you promise this to me."

Raoul only nodded and clutched him harder, tighter, closer... Athos knew there wouldn't be words enough to soothe him, so he just kept on the caresses and let the boy wept until he fell sleep. Then, Athos picked him up and climbed the stairs with his precious cargo, mumbling soft promises that Raoul would never hear. The door of his son's room was open and the bed was unmade, ready to cradle his little boy. Athos rocked Raoul in his arms, he was reluctant to let him go.

His family could go to hell in a steadfast horse!

"I'll rush to return to you, Raoul," he promised once he could force himself to lay the boy in the sheets. After he pulled up the covers and deposited a kiss on his child's brow. "You have my word."

Before he lost his heart, Athos left Raoul's room. Grimaud was in the corridor, his expression said he understand the situation. A quick exchange of signals was enough to reach an agreement over the domestic affairs; with military precision, Athos was dressed in his doublet, his valise attached to his saddle and his horse was lead to the courtyard.

"I confide the house to you, Grimaud," Athos said, one foot on the stirrup, "Please, make my absence bearable to Raoul."

Grimaud nodded his agreement and let go the reins. Athos saluted the house-staff with his hat and encouraged the horse to start the long road ahead.

...

Five days on the road were enough to hold his temper and present a composed figure at the doors of that magnificent castle. It had been almost four years since he departed to his exile, four years since he saw his whole family, and these are people who not only knew all his faults, they also had the power to rub his misbehavior to his face with complete impunity.

"I can do it," he said to himself, driving his horse to the gates through the bridge over the moat. "I'm my mother's son."

The sound of horse-hooves on the bridge lulled him away from the threat and drew him nearer to his memories. His mother loved balls and parties, and she was a queen when the Queen was not around. Could he be a man of the world had he been brought up by her hand? Most likely, but he was a man and his father took precedence over his upbringing.

His mother was younger than his father, and astonishing pretty too. They married because the good King Henri wanted to please his father, one of his closest friends, and she was one of the most spectacular ladies of the Court and a good friend of Queen Marie. That didn't end well. They had nothing in common and she was besieged by the young dandies around Athos' conception and that was enough for his father's family to brand her as an adulteress. That, and the fact Queen Marie called her to Paris, ended effectively with their marriage.

"What do we have told you all your life, Olivier?" his father asked when he demanded an explanation. "You are my son! There is no other way around, get used to it!"

"There was only one man in my life before you, my son," his mother write to him in that intimate correspondence they kept since Athos learned to write. "And that man was the only one after you."

Oh, his mother! He loved his mother tenderly and he was beside himself with happiness when his father let him live with her in Paris when he finished his service at sea. He was seventeen and was almost a boy, but he lived two years that changed his life in Paris; in those two years he learned how to dance and how to love, and how to serve a delicious, flattering comment to an ugly lady without tainting his lips with a lie. She polished the rough draft of man he was and made him a gentleman.

"Your father and his _Puritan_ view of life!" she exclaimed when he confessed to her he didn't knew how to dance, "No, no, no! Definitely, I will not tolerate another La Fère, unfit for the matters of love, wandering around Paris!"

She didn't allowed him to escort her to a ball until he learned how to move around the floor. It was a hard task, he was used to maintain his balance in a ship and to change his feet for a sword-thrust, prancing around at the rhythm of the music was all Greek for him. He berated himself every time he made a mistake until she applied the heroic treatment.

"Olivier," she said, unable to see him suffer that way. "You don't understand what dance is, let me explain it to you," in that moment Athos felt his heart sank to his stomach, "Dance is a combat, my boy, you thrust and your partner must parry; the only way you could fail it's if you don't deliver a thrust." His mother, then, clapped his delicate and small hands and commanded to the Spanish lute player: "_¡Tocad un canario!_" (1)

"Mother, I can't dance a simple pavana!" Olivier protested, the humiliation was building inside him. Any other person, his father included, could be dead by that moment for pressing him in that imperious way.

"Not a dance, Olivier, a combat!" she replied, gathering her skirt around her waist. "_En garde, monsieur!_"

What could he do? As soon as the music began his mind, geared for combat, made him do a couple of clumsy hops, his heels clicking loudly on the floor. His mother, smiling copied them, her eyes daring him to do it better. Athos tried to comply, hoping along and crossing his legs, approaching to her in almost threatening way; she didn't shirk the challenge and soon they were covering the floor, jumping and teasing each other approaching and move away, their eyes locked.

"I knew you could do it," her mother said when they finished the dance. Those simple words made him feel loved and invincible at the same time.

Soon the _dance basse_ had no secrets for him, he could dance the galliard and the branle with equal ease, and once he mastered them, the _haute dance_ was child's play. Athos was finally her escort to every ball she assisted and those night were the most cherished memories on his heart. In one of those night, she gave him an advice, one he unfortunately heeded to the letter.

"Your father's family is driven by power, my child," she said to him one night when they returned from a royal ball. "They would love to marry you for a tract of land, and you are better than that," she pressed her hand to his biceps before delivering a cordial, mocking dare: "Prove it by marrying for love."

His family was driven by power, titles are power and in the last twenty years they were losing them, drop by drop like a wounded deer. What had saved Athos' title and lands is the simple fact that, if they disown him, they would lose title and land because his father legacy would be reverted by escheat. Athos was aware of it, but titles and land are nothing without Raoul.

He was his mother's son, and he knew what was really important.

...

"Look who's here!" A familiar voice shouted as soon as he cross the threshold.

"Alone?" Another taunting voice replied the first shout.

"Whom could he bring along?" A third voice protested. "His wife?"

Athos snorted. It was good to knew some things didn't change: "I had miss you too, cousins!"

He alighted without effort, and that was commendable for a man of his age.

"Who said I had miss you?" One of his cousins asked him, approaching with a stable hand to take care of his horse.

"I supposed it," Athos said and made a reverence, "since you issued the invitation."

"My mother wanted to see you, Olivier," he said clasping him to his chest in the most faked embrace he could muster, before he went on in a barely audible whisper: "before you will be disowned once and forever, _cousin_."

"If I spare your life, Henri, it's because I want to make your mother a gift in her birthday," Athos replied, corresponding to his embrace and noticing the fumes of wine in his clothes. He didn't smile when he said aloud: "Well, it's good to see you, even when you didn't miss me. Now, with your permission, I need to deliver a felicitation."

Athos didn't wait for more taunting, spoiled brats are worst when there was not a figure of authority present and it was imperative to tear himself away from temptation. The party was in its loudest moment, the ensemble was set at the hall and inside the gallery there was a dance was still going, the richest clothes twirled around with the methodical precision of the pieces of a clock. Athos knew he had to wait before he could include himself in the dancing group and search for his aunt.

One of his cousins, Charles de Trosly approached him with a goblet filled to the brim with wine and offered to him. Athos saw it and wondering if that was a peace offering, but still he couldn't take it. He was afraid to suffer a relapse of his most recent ailment and shook his head with a smile.

"Word is around that you came alone," Charles said in a confidential tone.

"I hope you didn't bet I'll bring someone along."

"Your valet, perhaps?"

"Are you implying something?"

"We all believe he's almost your wife now you can't have a one."

The taunt was served with skill and tact, Athos could give his cousin that, but that was an insult and it begged for a proper reply.

"You are almost right: he care for my person and my house, like a wife, but Grimaud is better than any wife."

"Care to explain?" Charles demanded, he could almost feel the concealed stabwound.

"I have no carnal debt with him," Athos said signaling Charles' less-than-youthful wife with a deadpan expression. That was a great alliance for the family, but Athos almost felt sorry for his cousin.

Before his cousin could manage to concoct a retort, Athos managed to escape from him and slip into the gallery, mingling among the dancers. He smiled a lot and nodded to the people that condescended to recognize him until he found the guest of honor seated by the gilded doors, in the freshest place in the party.

"Madame," Athos saluted with a profound reverence, his hat in his hand. "I was summoned and here I am. Please allow me to offer you my congratulations in this blessed date when you reach this venerable age."

"Have you noticed how tactfully this boy just called me 'old'?" the elder lady commented to her daughter-in-law with a hearty laugh, "Olivier! I was afraid you wouldn't make an appearance," she said to him, extending her arm. "That's a lot of panache, my boy!"

Athos put a knee on the floor and gently kissed her shaky fingers: "And miss the opportunity to see you? Never!"

"You flatterer! Come and sit here," she said, pointing at a footstool by her side.

Athos obediently sat in the footstool and kept his silence. The music started again and Henri came to ask his wife for a dance, he smiled at seeing Athos in the place of the pages. Athos couldn't care less for his smile, his mind was busy sorting out his options in this mess. A hand in his shoulder made him smile. Athos always liked his aunt, maybe because, like his own mother, like himself, she was an outsider to the family.

"You reckless boy," she chided him and smacked him over the head with her fan, "How do you manage to get yourself into so much trouble?"

"Believe me, aunt, I'm not sure," Athos replied taking out his hat. "I fancy it is a natural gift."

"You are in hot water again, rascal."

"Your letter made that pretty clear, but this time I'm innocent: I _found_ the boy."

"Did you find the boy? And did he come with the title of viscount around the neck?"

Athos didn't consider it to be a trouble. Bragelonne was his fief and he was exercising his prerogative to partake it with whoever please him, he was just making the habit of calling Raoul 'viscount' by the people in the vicinity, now the proceedings were in motion, he even had Richelieu's say so in the affair, though neither the Cardinal nor his family seemed aware of it. A point in his favor. His aunt gave him a stern glare and he did his best to show his innocence. She must find his eyes pretty candid because she heaved a sigh and took her right hand to her temple.

"You boys will be the death of me," she complained with faint voice, "between your rather disorganized way to manage your affairs and your cousins indiscretions..."

"Well, dear aunt, I'm sure you are aware of what my mother used to say."

"If you have nothing good to say," the lady smiled at him with a tenderness she could muster. It was evident she had a soft spot for her nephew.

"Please, make haste and tell me all," Athos followed her cue, giving her his most charming smile. He made a simple gesture to point her the magnificent gilded doors that lead to the gardens. "You seem hot and rather put out. May I have the honor to escort you?"

* * *

><p>(1) Play a canarie!<p>

**A/N:** The canaries dances for couples of Spanish origin. They were different from dances of the court since they were rather athletic and had a faster rhythm. Most of the time they were improvised.


	9. Radix Malorum

**SUMMARY**: August 1637, Orleans. _Radix malorum est cupiditas_, a Bible quotation. Athos never doubt the Sacred Scripture, but it's Latin version didn't seem so faithful know.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.

_My most deep gratitude to Lady Wallace, who kindly beta'ed this one._

**Radix Malorum  
><strong>by Arithanas

Raoul was seated at the withers and Athos guided the horse to the building of the university of Orleans, enjoying the childish delight of the little man in front of him. The whole travel had been an adventure but they were in the city at last, and right on time. He tried to keep his mind focused in the task at hand, but Raoul's elated cries made all his effort pointless. Grimaud, behind them, was bored and made it real clear with his obvious yawns.

Ignorance was a bliss, indeed.

Once they reached the university premises Athos alighted and picked up his boy who was sporting new and clean clothes. The cost in Blois was high enough but here it would be even higher, so Athos was extremely careful in handling the boy, changing his clothes now would be prohibitive.

"Is _M. le Comte_ ready to tell me why are we here?" Raoul asked standing as tall as his three feet allowed him. Raoul was extremely happy to leave Bragelonne behind, he even remembered to call Athos by his title.

"I intend to make you a very special gift, Raoul," Athos explained, checking his ward's attire was correct, from the small riding boots to the new, small velvet cap over about his joyful face, "but we need to talk to a doctor before you can enjoy it."

"A doctor? I don't need no doctor!" Raoul shifted from happiness to suspicion to concern. "I'm fine!"

"Yes, you are fine, Raoul, but..."

Athos couldn't deliver the well thought-speech he was saving to explain Raoul this trip to Orleans. The boy clutched his breeches and buried his face on his thigh, sobbing with heart-wrenching distress. The cheap pheasant feather described an erratic pattern with each weepy gasp of the boy. With a worried look, Athos gazed around them, wishing no one had noticed this strange behavior, but his luck kept being as bad as ten years ago and people was already commenting about it. He tore Raoul from his clothes very gently and put a knee on the soil to see him in the eye.

"What is it, Raoul?" he asked in a whisper, trying to make this scene less shameful, if that was possible.

"You! _Pa_... you need a doctor!"

"Raoul, please, hold yourself," Athos pleaded, drawing his handkerchief to wipe away this childish tears. "I'm fine! We need to see a _law_ doctor," he tried to give the word some emphasis, "and do me the favor of calling me _M. le Comte_."

"Law doctor?" Raoul looked up at his godfather, trying to comprehend his words.

"Yes, a _law_ doctor!" Athos took the opportunity to make his woebegone face clean. The last thing he needed was that he gave the impression of an ill-treated child. "I want you to be a real viscount, so a doctor needs to see you..."

"An interesting project, Olivier," a harsh voice came from behind him while a shadow felt over his back, "I'll gladly hear all about it."

_Oh, you will..._ Athos promised himself as he recovered his vertical.

The man was his cousin, once called just Monsieur de Connigis, was now the head of the family and his rich doublet full of jewels and mother-of-pearl buttons seemed to proclaim that. Raoul, impressed—and a little scared— for that apparel, came to seek refuge behind his legs, just like he did when he was presented to Monsieur. Athos shook his head and heaved a sigh, this lad needed to travel around more often.

"Could you please alight so I can present you to Raoul, cousin?" Athos asked with perfectly cold blood.

His scornful smile was an insult but Athos had gambled enough in Paris to raise the bet beyond his means, besides he knew he had the upper hand here. With gentleness and good manners, Athos made some force on Raoul and made him face this new and scary adult.

"Raoul, allow me to present you _Monsieur le _baron_ de Brantôme_. "

"I am delighted," the lad managed to stutter while he took off his velvet cap.

"The pleasure is..." Brantôme said, making an excessive reverence to the boy. His voice wavered and his knees wobbled. "...mine?"

Athos knew him since they were Raoul's age and height, he knew his cousin couldn't resist mockery at Olivier's expenses. That's why he fell on the snare so easily and gave his cousin the petty pleasure to see him on his knees, his mouth agape, searching in Raoul's face the blatant familiar resemblance.

"_Pa_..." Raoul called out, he was pawing the ground like an upset colt. He noticed his mistake and tried to correct it while fingering his codpiece. "Pardon me. I need..."

"Grimaud, take care of Raoul," Athos commanded, sporting a little smirk.

"I see you keep this nit-wit by your side," Brantôme said, unable to resist the opportunity to make a remark about his valet.

Scorn is the cross loyal servants had to bear. Grimaud behaved at the height of the circumstances and just made a little reverence before taking Raoul's hand and guide him to the side of the building.

"He provides service just the way I like."

"I wonder..."

"Don't even try," Athos stopped him, seeing how Raoul dragged the servant, spurred by his urge.

"That boy, Olivier, reeks of family a league away."

"I noticed, Henri." Athos knew the time had come, "That's why I want to keep him."

Brantôme shook his head, in evident disapproval: "The black sheep to the end, aren't you?"

"I want to keep the boy," Athos adjusted his cuffs nonchalantly, "not the blame."

"I want to meet the moron who would help you in that purpose."

"I'm seeing him right now."

Brantôme looked at him in disbelief.

"You were living in Paris in 1633, weren't you?" Athos continued, oblivious of that gaze.

"Wherefore you want to know?"

"Because I abode there in the same date, and the fastest way to Toulouse it is the post trail. I followed the post trail, did you?"

"It would be insanity if I didn't. We had too little time to reach Toulouse."

"And you passed by Limoges, didn't you?"

"You must pass by Limoges if you are following the post trail. Olivier, I find your games tiresome."

"It's not a game, I just remembered your second son was studying in _Chapelle Saint-Aurélien_ at that date. Congratulations for his appointment, Henri!"

"Thank you, who told you?"

"Why? Jacques! You know, that old friend who is now the priest in Roche-l'Abeille."

"Ah... _your_ friend. What does all of this have to do with the boy?"

"I'll come to my point when the time is due. In 1633, your heir was in Brantôme."

"Managing my affairs, as you seem to know very well."

"Please, thank your mother and her prodigious memory," Athos said, finally returning him that mocking reverence. "Shall we enter?"

"What for? If you are not going to recognize this ba..."

Athos didn't allowed him to finish that insult, his hand was in his hilt, the weapon seemed to spring spontaneously from its scabbard to his hand. Five good inches were out as a tacit threat.

"If this _filius nullius _(1) is your son, I'll try to make the family understand, Olivier..."

"He is not my son," Athos didn't expect those simple words hurt so much, but they were necessary. "You know I'll never touch a woman, as everybody who ever knew me could attest."

"_Certum est, quia impossibile!_ (2)"

"Prove it," the sound of the sword being sheathed in the scabbard empathized the dare. "The boy was found in la Roche-l'Abeille. Any of _your_ sons could be the father."

Athos let the information sink into his cousin's brain. The negotiation of consequences was not the most honorable road to travel, but Henri was the only one who could further his cause and to gag him was the only way to ensure no one could thwart Raoul's future. Additionally, if his lie had even a slight possibility to be proven true, Henri would be another support for the boy.

"_Beati possidentes _(3)," Henri de Brantôme admitted his defeat with a scowl, "Well played, cousin."

Athos tipped his hat and raised his hand to signal Grimaud they must enter the building.

...

Athos had planned to spend the afternoon in silent, devout prayer, as a way of thanking the Heavens because he got his way in this affair, but Raoul had other plans. The child followed the adult like a meek lamb, but the dark and Gothic Orleans cathedral was filled to the top with saints and virgins and martyrs exposing their wounds in vivid colors. And the damned stained glass with Joan's story... Too much for a young one to see and do not ask, and Raoul was a curious child. Athos tried to explain to him and then reduce him to silent reverence but when the lad realized the man on the cross and the baby in his mother's arms were the same person, he could barely keep still or silent. He had to change his plans, and he could repay the Good Lord later that night.

So, while he stripped Raoul from his ceremonial attire and wrapped him in his good play clothes, Grimaud was sent to procure them some food. They should spend sometime praising the Lord in the great temple He made with His own power for His own Eternal Glory. Raoul was used to his godfather's ways and the change of clothes could only mean he was to be able to call him 'pa' and behave like a child again; and he did it wholeheartedly, clinging to Athos collar and using his legs to grip his waist.

"Are we going to play?" he asked watching sideways before kissing Athos' jowl.

"We are going to swim, and to eat _al fresco_," Athos' replied, carrying his loving ward on his hip and taking him out of the cathedral. "Maybe I could give you your first fencing lesson, Raoul."

"I have not a sword," Raoul protested, patting Athos' sword's pommel.

"_Deus providebit_ (4)."

"The-us-probe-what?"

"Please, remember me to teach you Latin," Athos pleaded, hoisting Raoul over the withers.

Raoul's giggles made Athos smile, that paternal gesture seemed to be ingrained in his face forever. Athos saddled himself and waited until he saw Grimaud with a heavy basket; they were ready for the expedition. His dark heavy horse neighed and people knew someone was about to trod the street on horse back, and they started their way to the banks of the Loire.

They crossed the _Point Neuf _and found a place to tie up Emir and the bad hack Grimaud was riding, he made a mental note to find him a better horse.

Raoul ran to spray a tree as soon as he was left on the floor, that boy was breeched the last Spring and he was still having troubles to hold his water. Athos smiled again, but this time it was a sad one, Raoul was getting more and more independent and his father found himself both proud of this little man and yearning for the little boy who clung to his clothes not so long ago.

Time was always too short...

Mocking himself for those longings, Athos started to shed out his doublet, a good dip in the cold water could clear his head from those fantasies. Raoul heed his cue with a joyous glee and, in a blink, he was nude as the day he was born, he always liked to be _au naturel_, his clothes were scattered haphazardly behind him. Someday Athos had to talk the boy about his due decorum, but right now he was more worried about the churning waters of the Loire.

"Wait for me, Raoul!" Athos instructed, folding his breeches and taking of his hose. The rest of his clothes were over Emir's saddle.

Grimaud was busy, picking up Raoul's clothes and grunting his glee at that little boy who splashed water over his face, as if a summer dip in the Loire was a rare occurrence. Athos, in his shirt, dipped in the water slowly to have time to throw his last garment at the riverbank and then he extended his arms towards the child who took a run-up and dove with a great splash of water. Athos fished him out and let him splash at ease.

"I was so hot!" Raoul exclaimed when he finished to sprinkle water like a priest on Holy Saturday. "The good clothes made me all sweaty."

"Those hot clothes suit you just fine," Athos commented and then dipped his head to remove the sweat from his own brow.

"I don't like to be hot," Raoul protested, but his complaint was not heeded; his godfather was otherwise engaged with his own relaxation. As usual when he felt neglected he thought of pulling Athos' clothes, but he found himself bereft of resources, and he didn't dare to jerk his godfather's hair. "I want to swim!"

With a thrust Raoul dived into the river and dog paddled without a set direction, as he was used to do at Bragelonne. Athos felt the kick and raise to the surface, startled and worried for the boy, this part of the Loire had stronger currents and if he distracted his eyes from Raoul he risked to lose him down the stream. The boy noticed his appearance and paddled towards him, splashing with childish glee.

"Stay by the river shore, Raoul," Athos said, extending his hand to make him come closer.

"Why?" The boy asked and shook his head to remove his wet locks from his face.

"Because it's safer," Athos replied. He helped the boy to knot his long hair with an absent gesture while his eyes surveyed the camp, the horses where drinking water and Grimaud had set aside his basket in a cool spot and was idling his time under the shadow of a big willow. "Grimaud!"

Grimaud raised his hand to heed the signal which informed him his master wanted him to be in the water, and he complied hurriedly, kicking his shoes before getting his clothes completely drenched in river water —since his master gave him no time to get rid of them— Athos saw him waddle in the liquid environment and then placed his precious child in his arms.

"I'm going to the other riverbank," Athos informed him, looking him in the eye to stress his order: "Watch him!"

Athos was a good swimmer, and the Loire was always a good challenge. The young viscount clapped his hands in delight at seeing his godfather starting off his swim with the vigorous movements from his arms; the water around them made waves and Raoul escaped from Grimaud's arms to grab his father's horse's reins which he used to swing over the water. The temperamental stallion was not in the mood to care about that small creature and sunk him in the river as the beast tried to take a sip.

...

A couple of riders passed over the _Point Neuf_ ; these two travelers, for the bulk on their horses's hindquarters resembled suspiciously to a valise, marched with a panache that could rival with a peacock; the first of them sported a flamboyant doublet covered with eye-catching sequins while his companion was dressed with a magnificent and colorful livery.

"M. du Vallon, dare I to repeat that this trip could be fruitless?" the second man said with a tone of deference worthy of a duke.

The man addressed this way just raised his mighty shoulders, that gesture could never be subtle in a gentleman of his size

"I told you that there is not certainty your commendable friend would be at home!"

"And I told you, Mousqueton," M. du Vallon replied, his features proclaimed his annoyance, "that even if we are to camp at his door, we are going to see Bragelonne."

"Then there is no rush and we can spend a night in this wonderful city," Mousqueton protested and opened his arms to signal Orleans, but then his eyes caught an unusual spectacle in the river.

"Blois is also a wonderful city, almost a royal one!" was the quick retort, he waited for a reply but when that failed to come he stopped his steed. "Mousqueton?"

As his servant didn't answer he turned around to know what was happening. His valet had stopped his mount and his eyes were glued in the middle of the stream. A lone figure was challenging the current vigorously. Porthos set his horse next to Mousqueton's.

"A brave man, master," Mousqueton said with the eyes of a man who had seen a good deal of bravado.

"I only know a man crazy enough to believe he could have his own way with a river."

Mousqueton was nodding his agreement when his master hoisted him from his saddle with a mighty pull.

"Spit it out!"

"Master… err…" Mousqueton knew he couldn't admit he knew they were in Orleans, but lying didn't seem to be the best bet, "it could be possible… I wasn't even sure… Grimaud could warn me I shouldn't write to him around these dates…"

"Let's ask that scrawny man," Porthos said, letting him go and signaling a thin figure next to the riverside; he seemed to be guarding a couple of mounts, "because he looks a lot like _your _commendable friend, knave."

...

Grimaud chuckled to himself and threw his breeches to dry land, the horse keep drinking the fresh water until he rose his big head with a frightened neigh. Raoul's foot got a hold on the bit and used it like a stirrup. Soon, the scared horse found himself eye to eye with the mischievous child who straddled his nose and dripped water over his nares.

"Horsey!" Raoul exclaimed, hugging that enormous bestial face.

With with a cool head, the servant snatched the reins just in time because Emir was a temperamental stud. As was to be expected, the beast shook off the unwanted weight from his snout and Raoul fell to the water amidst delighted cries of joy. Grimaud let him splash about a little before fishing him out, and Raoul climbed onto his chest, still thrilled by his short airborne trip.

"Again! " Raoul exclaimed with joy, securing his place with his legs around Grimaud's torso, trying to clap his hands at the same time, "Let's do it again! Ag-!"

"Huh?" Grimaud asked when this boisterous boy fell silent suddenly.

"A man," Raoul explained with an intrigued expression. "There!"

The servant turned around and clutched the child to his breast, his first concern was to protect the child and his mind was frantically wondering what he would do in this semi-naked state. Then, he saw the man in question with his unmistakable fashion sense and an askew smile appeared on his face.

"Friend," he informed patting Raoul's back. "Good friend!"

"I knew I knew that skinny ass!" Porthos boomed, starting to shed his doublet; it was far to expensive to risk it in the river.

Grimaud just keep his smile and made a reverence and he managed to do it with a certain grace in spite of being burdened with the child's weight.

"And who's the lad?" Porthos demanded, kicking his boots to the clearing.

The expression in Grimaud's face became stern, and that simple gesture proclaimed that his lips were sealed. Raoul peered at Porthos with curiosity, he was not used to seeing Grimaud questioned and this strange man was imposing for his volume and loud voice. Porthos trod into the water and extended his arms.

"Hand him over, Grimaud," Porthos commanded with a smile, "I'm not gonna eat him."

Reluctantly, Grimaud let him carry the boy, his gesture was still annoyed and his eyes searched the riverside. Mousqueton was there, silent as a mouse, picking up Grimaud's pants and was looking at his friend with ashamed eyes. The Breton threatened him with a closed fist, suspecting his betrayal.

"It's not his fault, Grimaud," Porthos said, keeping Raoul at arms' length, his eyes surveyed every trait in that boyish face. "Who are you, boy?"

"I don't speak to strangers," Raoul proclaimed, crossing his arms and glaring at him.

"I'm not a stranger," Porthos replied with a smile, that boy glared just like Athos. "I'm M. du Vallon, and Grimaud said I'm a friend."

Raoul cast a glance to Grimaud and the servant nodded unenthusiastically.

"I'm Raoul," the boy answered now that the old retainer vouched for this man.

"Good. Nice name," Porthos hugged the boy. "You are a fine lad, Raoul. Would you tell me why are you in Orleans?"

Grimaud growled, Raoul was a naive boy and he could spill his master's secrets easily. Porthos heard him and pet the boy's hair.

"I don't know," Raoul said with a smile, "A man asked me if I wanted to live with _M. le Comte_, I said yes, then the man spoke funny and I tried not to laugh. And he asked many things then he stopped being funny and started to be boring."

"So, you had a busy day. Where is _M. le Comte_?"

Raoul pointed to the small figure at the other side of the river.

"I think I better pay him my respects," Porthos noticed the servant's upset look and almost smiled when he handed him the boy. "Stay with Grimaud," he ordered taking his shirt off and handing it to his valet who was in his shirtsleeves, "he needs to introduce you to his friend Mousqueton."

"You have a friend?" Raoul asked Grimaud in disbelief while Porthos started to swim.

The answer was a nod, a little more firm than the latter. The so called friend entered the river in his shirt and greeted his college with a nervous stance. Grimaud just grumbled while pointing him to Raoul.

"My respects, young Master Raoul," Mousqueton greeted the boy like he was an adult, then he tried to talk to his compeer. "I put your breeches up to dry."

Grimaud didn't answer, his face was set in an annoyed grimace.

"I didn't say nothing, Grimaud," Mousqueton tried to justify their presence in the city, "you know my master: he got the idea to visit your master and there was nothing I could do to stop him!"

"God's will," Grimaud muttered, his eyes following the great bulk of Porthos' figure gliding in the water.

"Weren't you two friends?" Raoul asked, climbing to Grimaud's shoulders.

...

Athos reached the southern river shore and stretched his back. He wasn't as good as he once was and it was good there is only him to see how tiring was that short race against himself. Out of habit he checked the other side to the river, trying to see how Raoul and Grimaud were faring and the sight of two human figures —one of them keeping his naked boy out of the water— by their side prompted to return without taking a respite.

He was almost at the other shore when he noticed a body swimming in his general direction, and the size of this person was pushing a good deal of water against him. There were only a small number of people in all France who could have the mass to do that and that prompted him to take a better look of that unknown swimmer. Porthos noticed the return of the water, there was an obstacle ahead and he tried to peer around him.

"Porthos?" Athos asked, unable to believe that wet face was his friend.

"Athos!" Porthos exclaimed, rising from the water like the mighty Glaucus, his great arms around Athos chest.

"What are you doing _here_?" Both of them shouted at the same time.

"I came to visit you, you dimwit!" Porthos said clapping his hand on Athos shoulder.

"I told you to wait for another year, thickhead!"

"Pooh! You knew my apartment in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, Bragelonne couldn't be worst!"

"Your wife?"

"At home, too hot for her!"

Raoul's voice, shrieking with laughter, stopped the interrogation. Athos gave a glance to the river shore and found himself in front of Mousqueton's stunned face, the cryptic gaze of Grimaud, and Raoul splitting his sides while trying to maintain the balance over the slight frame of his servant.

"I missed you, Porthos, a lot," Athos said, his hands on Porthos' shoulders, his voice was calm and sensible, "but, next time, could we refrain from rubbing our naked bodies together in front of the child?"

Raoul renewed his laughs when he saw his new friend pushing away his godfather with a great splash of water.

* * *

><p><strong>...est cupiditas<strong>

(1) _filius nullius: _Nobody's son.  
>(2) <em>Certum est, quia impossibile: <em>It is certain, because it is impossible_.  
><em>(3) _Beati possidentes_: Blessed are those who possess or possession is nine points of the law.  
>(4) <em>Deus providebit<em> : God will provide.


	10. Coeur à Cœur

**SUMMARY**: August 1637, Orleans. A nightcap is the perfect time to share secrets, though the price could be a little higher than expected.  
><strong>CONTAINS: <strong>Wine consumption, angst related to an addictive behavior, discussions about extramarital affairs, illegitimacy and transgressions against children rights.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.

****Coeur-à-Cœur**  
><strong>by Arithanas

_Do not tell secrets to those whose faith and silence__  
><em>you have not already tested.<em>  
><em>~Elizabeth I<em>_

Grimaud's throaty laugh came from downstairs; he was having a good time with his friend because Mousqueton was laughing too.

This unexpected reunion was doing his family a lot of good. Athos smiled.

Raoul loved Porthos on first sight, now they were friends and it showed. They were seated on their shirtsleeves by the window of the modest inn where his family took shelter for the night, Raoul's enraptured face upturned to his friend, drinking every expression from that bearded face. Porthos smiled at him, his big hand over the child's ribcage with the easy and soft hand of a person tending a small animal. They both smile as the tale fell from Porthos' mouth, something about talking animals. Athos didn't really pay attention, because his mind was wandering on what was going to happen when the tale is done and Raoul wouldn't be there to distract Porthos.

Raoul laughed, Porthos hand was tickling his gut but, strangely, Athos felt not the bite of jealousy; that seemed just right and natural. His mind wondered why he didn't felt the necessity to take his child and protect him from this man, as he felt with the rest of the world. The ex-musketeer heart weight heavily, he didn't want to ensnare Porthos in a web of falsehood like he did with his family. It was not the right thing to do when they had shared drink and risk for so many years. He paced the little room, racking his brain, trying to find a way to face the situation and he almost stumbled upon Grimaud who came to him with a tankard brimming with hot tea and whose hand made some signals to share an anecdote but Athos cut him short.

"Later," Athos took the tankard, "please."

A faint smile on his lips, a little hurt behind his eyes as Grimaud signaled that yes, they could exchange news later. Athos patted his back, an amicable sign to let him know it was not his fault that his master was not up for a chat. His servant left him with his worries, as he usually does in those situations. He lacked the words to thank the heavens that Grimaud hadn't run away years ago; now his silent presence was a comfort for his troubled spirit.

He traipsed around the room, his hot tea in his hands and his head on the awful snare of lies and deceptions that he spun around Raoul and around himself. Truth would be easier, but truth would be dangerous, and he refused to put Raoul in the line of fire. Porthos was a danger since he didn't know how to rein that big mouth of his. His friend deserved better but his son deserved the best. Athos' fingers pulled the ribbons of his doublet, his lips mumbled a silent curse to this hot summer, but heat was not the reason why he couldn't stand still.

"Athos..." Porthos' voice called him out. "La Fère!"

That voice sounded too distant, too soft even when his ears registered his friend's most rowdy tone. "du Vallon?"

"Parbleu, _M. le Comte_, this is the twelfth time I call your name." Porthos tried to raise his heavy weight from the window's frame. His shoulders so slouched and his knees bent made his whole posture comic. "Could you please take this little truant on your care? He fell asleep without warning!"

"He graced you with his company two hours beyond his curfew," Athos said with a faint smile. His hand placed his untouched tankard on a small table. "I told you so beforehand."

"He never yawned," Porthos's eyes fell on Raoul who took his shuteye in the crook of his elbow, a faint smile in his lips, his fists close to his breast, "and he neither made a fuss"

In the chevalier du Vallon's big arms, his big boy's shape was as negligible as the one of a baby and Athos smiled as his own arms were extended to retrieve his treasure. "Let me take him."

Raoul sleeping form poured into his arms effortlessly, his head rested on his shoulder, in his favorite spot, and his hand clutched the doublet as he always did. Athos secured his hand under the child's bottom and smiled. He felt complete again, saddled with this precious lading. Porthos took him by surprise, his big hand reached behind Athos' head and placed a wet, noisy kiss on his unsuspecting brow; this unmitigated effrontery left Athos even more speechless than the usual.

"Give it to the boy when you put him to bed," Porthos said, his face beaming his good humor at his friend's face.

"A word would suffice next time," Athos said, still gob-smacked by the off-hand caress. "Rest assured I know how to kiss this boy good night."

"Then forgive my boldness, for I could never suspect how much the boy had thawed your heart," he said, his hand slapped Athos in the back, "_Peste!_ You have changed a great deal, my friend!"

As usual, Porthos had a knack for stating the obvious but Athos found this trait refreshing rather than annoying.

"Children do that to you, you will realize when your time comes." Athos fit Raoul's weight over his frame. "I'll take him to bed. Good night, du Vallon."

"Take him to bed and return for a nightcap." Porthos let out the suggestion with a finesse that took Athos unaware. "We have a lot to talk."

He gave Porthos a small nod and went for the door where Grimaud waited for him, candlestick in hand. They climbed two flights of stairs, in foreboding silence; in the darkness he could feel Grimaud fretting, that invitation was unsuitable for Athos' health; he knew it, but not heeding that appeal was unsuitable for Porthos' friendship. Athos would drink that night, just one cup, enough to make Porthos happy but not enough to make him sick. He had the will to take just one cup, no more. For this boy, to honor his valet's efforts: one and no more. As if they noticed his resolution, Raoul mumbled into his shoulder and Grimaud gritted his teeth, but Athos just keep going to their room.

With customary efficiency, Grimaud open the room door and let him review the contents, Athos noticed the big mattress bed and the humble cot at its foot-board. Not that his valet wasn't allowed to share his master's room but the fact he paid for his own bedding spoke volumes. Athos felt ashamed of himself; that humble bed was a reproach because he didn't think of his valet's accommodations.

Grimaud was getting old, but that did not prevent him from follow and serve at his best capacity, for while his master stood at the door he went and undo the bed, ready to help him with the young master. Athos placed the boy on the mattress; they took his clothes until his flimsy shirt was his only dressing. Athos leaned over his sleepy face and placed Porthos' kiss on his forehead, Raoul moaned and rolled on the bed, looking for refuge among the pillows.

Children... they never cease to surprise you.

"Grimaud," Athos whispered and signaled the bed, a silent order to lay his weight on the aforementioned place.

Grimaud, stubbornly, shook his head and signaled the cot.

Athos repeated his command, touch his eye and signaled Raoul.

A new shake. Some hurried signals, a message well abridged but comprehensible: Grimaud would watch the boy but he would wait for his master awake.

Athos rolled his eyes and gently slapped Grimaud on the nape, before repeating his order for a third time. He had no time or patience to manage around Grimaud's ornery pride.

As his manservant got ready to obey, Athos signaled the boy and the door and moved his two hands horizontally, the message got inside Grimaud's spirit and he laid his body next to Raoul's. Once the necessary agreements were made, Athos took the candle with him and get out the room.

"Come here, my wayward comrade!" Porthos greeted Athos with his loud voice before he could trespass the threshold. "My faithful Mousqueton found half a dozen of old Anjou. If I recall correctly it was your favorite."

"You will never get that right, eh, Porthos?" Athos placed the candlestick on the table and looked for his tankard; at least he could finish his tea before Porthos could do his best effort to get him sloshed.

"Do you miss something?"

"My tea."

"I tasted that dreadful concoction," Porthos replied approaching with a tumbler brimming with wine, "And then threw it through the window. That horrible brew was Satan's piss!"

"Do you kiss your wife with that mouth?"

"I have no other," Porthos put the tumbler in Athos' hand and made him close his fingers around it, "though I try to not cuss out around her. A propos, why do you punish your exquisite palate with such an atrocious brew?"

"Because I'm an old man, with old man aches."

"Faith! You are mocking me. You are almost as young as me!" Porthos took a tumbler from Mousqueton's hands and drained it in one gulp. "And for what I see you are even more fit than me. Anyway, how old are you?"

"Seven and thirty years, last spring," Athos informed him his hand toying with his wine. The weight of the metal tumbler pulling his wrist, the wet aroma of wine that anticipate its sour and acrid taste, his very stance with the drink in his hand brought back memories and made difficult to follow Porthos' conversation.

Porthos made a quick calculation with the fingers of his free hand and Athos smiled when he noticed his friend was reckoning the difference.

"Egad!" A pause. "There is a time, my dear Athos, when all must bow to the inevitable truth: You are old."

"Soon enough you will keep me nice company," Athos replied to his insult and, very cautiously, as if it were poison, he took a sip.

Frightful experience, like blaspheming on a church.

On Sunday.

Remembrance was almost hurtful. The earthy dry flavor of a wine whose days grew shorter in its way to the sourness, its bitter bite on the back of his mouth, and the tingle of warmth in its way towards his inwards. He didn't expect that his lips felt bone-dry, that his whole mouth was athirst and that his brain spurred him to hasten the rest of the wine, even when it was not the best vintage for his return to drinking. The effort to put down that recipient was making his shirt uncomfortably wet.

"... wife is almost as ripe and that didn't deter her from collect her rights, let me tell you," Porthos continued talking, oblivious of his friend's personal hell, "you better start to pile up parental advice on me because, God's willing, she can make me a daddy any of this days."

"I will refrain to do it. I refuse to be of those doting parents without another issue to talk about."

"Oh, come on!" A resounding slap on Athos' back, "The boy is delicious, witty and polite. You must tell me how you did it!"

"I'm not sure. Raoul is..." the hesitation on his voice was not due to the topic but to his growing necessity to drain the glass. "Raoul is a good boy."

"A good boy? A GOOD boy? You are not talking about a puppy, but about your son. God's grief, Athos! Wait until I tell Aramis!"

That was it.

Athos' resolution followed the tea and his hand poured the rest of the wine down through his gullet with a swift swing.

"Don't you ever dare to say so again." Athos declared pushing his friend away with the empty tumbler in his tightly closed fist.

By Porthos reaction Athos gathered he was a threatening image. His colors drained a little or that was the impression he had on the dim candlelight, his mustache bristled a bit and his eyes opened with a surprised expression that seemed out of place in a face like his. The pang of guilt drove deep into Athos' gut and he split from his friend with a huff.

"Is the boy truly your son?"

"No," Athos tore the bottle from a startled Mousqueton and help himself another dose. Repeating the lie was not making it easier: denying Raoul hurt him every time. "Raoul is an orphan, deserted by his mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have brought him up. That's all."

"Is that true?"

"That is all you and the whole world would hear from my lips: An orphan boy," Athos gulped the wine, "a _charity_."

"Is that so?" Porthos preened his mustache, Athos saw him by the corner of his eye. "Well, it is, if you say so. Where is Grimaud?"

"Hopefully, asleep. More likely, in bed and wide awake." Another sip. "My old Grimaud need his rest."

"You are right." Porthos' big hand fell on his shoulder. "I don't need you for the rest of the night: Go and get your sleep, Mousqueton."

"But..." Athos felt like growling at the vacillation on the servant's voice. Instead, he took another mouthful. "Yes, thank you. Sleep well, master."

Porthos' heavy steps were heard on the parquet, Mousqueton's footsteps retreating on the stairs. A heavy sigh, a closed door. Athos drank another gulp, fully aware that heartburn would make his morning a trip to hell from the inside, but thirst was so damnable and Porthos had hit hard a very sore spot. Old Anjou in his mouth, its taste of danger and of youthful foolhardiness; if he could still taste this special wine was because he was weak and despised himself for his feebleness. Athos laid his head against the window frame.

"Eh..." Porthos tapped his shoulder with something cool. It was a full bottle. "You'll need this."

A tremor of fear, a short gasp of panic. For a second, Athos felt about to ask his friend if he was trying to kill him; then he remembered Porthos knew nothing. The old lie spinning on his already wine-soaked brain. His fingers closed around the bottom almost against his will. If Porthos noticed something he made no comment, he just sat at the windowsill and swing his bottle without the aid of a tumbler.

Just like the old days.

They stayed by the window, tasting their wine, enjoying the breeze while the sounds on that inn faded away as its denizens went to sleep.

"Not my business," Porthos whispered when silence became too heavy, "but there is something you need to spit out."

"Nothing at all."

"You can't fool me. I'm not Aramis who couldn't care enough, I'm not d'Artagnan who cared far too much," he punched him slightly on the shoulder. "Come on. Tell it to Porthos."

"That name is still famous in Paris by the lack of discretion of its owner."

"I never told a soul about..."

"Porthos!"

"And they never heard a word relating to..."

"Enough!"

"At this moment you are pretty ungrateful..."

"You are not the only one who believes so."

"It is not that those were big secrets. I mean, not that I knew about your wife..."

"Let her lie still." Athos warned, feeling the renewed assault of his demon thirst.

"But if you allowed me to take part of the secret, I would keep it." Porthos took a healthy gulp when Athos didn't interrupt him. "That boy is your living portrait, a little more fair-colored, true, but he's a younger you from the toes to the glare, you can't deny him. _Parbleu!_ You can't put out a fire with a thimble of water! He will ask some darned questions very soon."

"He's asking them already." Athos lost the battle and gulped down another mouthful.

"What did you say him?"

"The same I said to you."

"_You_ lied to _your son_? I'm quite disappointed."

"He can't be my son. We would lose everything."

"Halt! Are you trading honesty for money? I don't know you anymore..."

"I don't know myself anymore..."

They huffed at each other and avoided the other's gaze while they sulked at the windowsill. Somehow serious words were the hardest to exchange between them, but, strangely, those were the kind of words they always ended up swapping between sips of alcohol. Athos could advice d'Artagnan, and argue politely with Aramis, but the darkest, hurtful affairs always ended up on joyful Porthos' lap. No one else help him to unburden his soul better than this big Picard.

"Please explain it to me because I don't get it," Porthos insisted once he felt they had enough time to cool their heads. "It's not like you are the first noble with a bastard child. Henri IV made almost a fashion statement out of it!"

"I wasn't noble when Raoul was begotten."

"Weren't you? You surely looked the part."

"No, if you marry a criminal, you are not." Athos sighed on his drink. "Raoul is the son of a forgotten, obscure soldier who dared to touch a woman way above his station. That man is no more."

"Tell me about the mother."

"You know I mustn't talk about a lady."

"Not even the basics?"

A new despondent sip from the tumbler. "She was blonde."

Porthos spat his wine through the window. "And here I was, thinking you were cured from blondes!"

"Yeah." Athos agreed, his hand was serving another drink. "Me too."

Porthos booted him playfully on the thigh and Athos tried to evade the blow. Just like the old days, that gesture was a way to convey the message he had been an idiot; it was a miracle they still can manage through old signals.

"So, no one is to know Raoul is yours?"

"Nobody. Not d'Artagnan, not Aramis, not de Treville." Athos downed another tumbler. So much for self-restraint. "Not even Raoul himself."

"Because you are protecting a blonde lady you mustn't talk about."

Athos thought about Marie de Rohan before giving Porthos an answer. Apart of the fact she gave birth to Raoul, he owed her nothing. In Roche-l'Abeille, his flesh was weak, his will was nonexistent, his mind was feeble; but his honor, though rather mauled, was intact: he didn't seduce her. No, he wasn't keeping his mouth shut to protect the false honor of that woman.

"No, I do it because I want Raoul to have the very best I can offer him."

"And the best you can offer him is a lie, for money."

"Children need things. Things cost hard currency." Athos fidgeted his drink. Talking about money was something obscene for him. "You know me, Porthos, I can abide by the barest minimum, but Raoul... This year alone, he had worn to tatters three pairs of shoes and it will get worse when he get older and need his own horse and sword. Our musketeer wages would never ever pay what Raoul needs."

"But you don't need to rely on wages. You're a Count!"

"Obviously, you don't understand. Let me be clear: if my family ever knows Raoul is my son, I'll be a Count no more."

Porthos' stunned silence made him understand he drove the point home.

"Pride?" He asked finally while Athos took another sip.

"Fear." Athos placed the tumbler on the windowsill. "What would you choose, Porthos? I'm curious. Being of nobility, without ever acknowledge this son, and see him grow up like a person of quality? Or being a soldier, proud of your child, but to see him cry when you can't find some bread for him to eat?"

Athos studied Porthos under the moonlight, his features seemed almost chiseled by the age; he was a little bit out of shape, but Athos recognized his friend and the way he carries the bottle to his lips. He was weighting the question and the answer he would give to it with absolute earnestness. Athos respected this and kept his silence.

Porthos raised his bottle slowly and offered him the bottom to toast: "To your ward"

"And your wife," clashing his tumbler against it, understanding him completely.

They drank a mouthful, for them it was even better than to issue a sacred vow. Wine was the blood that keeps their friendship alive.

"Since this will be the last time we shall talk about this knotty topic, I have some questions I want to do before it's too late."

"Be my guest."

"Is he your son?"

"A fact well known in this world, Porthos, is that the only thing you can't deny is your own mother." Athos gulped the wine in a desperate attempt to avoid confession. Porthos was not fooled. Better end it quickly, like pressing a hot iron on a bleeding wound. "I consorted with a blond woman in the town where this child was abandoned, on the date stated on the note inside the purse filled with gold that accompanied him. Did I carry the child on my belly to assert beyond the shadow of doubt that he's my son?" Porthos let out a roar of laughter. Athos snickered and said: " The answer is no. I didn't, but it is a safe bet to say I could be his father."

"So, you know the mother. Can we said she's...? How did you put it?"

"A person of quality?"

"Yes. Is she a person of quality?"

"Barring the fact the child is a bastard, Raoul worth his weight in silver, or a duchy at least."

"Did you bang the Queen?"

Athos slapped Porthos in the shoulder, with the immemorial gesture of an elder brother chastising the younger: "I told you there are things with which you are not allowed to jest."

"I beg your forgiveness," Porthos said, undaunted by the slight punishment, "also; I beg to be this child's godfather the day he takes the sacrament."

"Consider it done. Now, I must go to sleep."

"Night's still young and the wine's still free."

"But you didn't fight with barristers half of the day nor kept an eye on a toddler the rest of it."

"Right, you must be tired. Old men tire so easily..." Porthos left the windowsill and almost crushed Athos when he tried to hug him good night. "Sleep well. Not a word of this night shall leave my lips until the day I die."

"Must be the wine," Athos said, responding the best he could to the hug, "but, despite your reputation as a blabbermouth, I do believe you."

Laughing, Porthos lead him to the door and let him go to his room, not without making him know that breakfast was on his own. Athos protested, but Porthos heeded him not, replaced the tumbler with the candlestick on Athos' hand and pushed him through the threshold, as if forbidding him to say another word.

As Athos climbed the first flight of stairs he found himself reflecting on human flawed nature and in its feebleness, both in share the secrets and in matters of drink. A part of his addled brain was berating him about his weakness; the other was patting his back because he was still able to trust on people. Spirits play some nasty tricks on people's minds. The second flight of stairs cost him a lot more of effort, because his body took its toll on this night on the tiles in the form of a gripping pain on his right side that force him to kneel on the steps until it faded away.

Decidedly, Athos thought when he finally rested his weight on the humble cot of his valet; he had to stop drinking on a permanent basis.


	11. Quandaries

**SUMMARY**: August 1637, Blois. Porthos visit to Bragelonne has been a pleasure, but it inhabitants were forced to address some thorny questions raised by his presence. On top of that, he bought a new piece of land...  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet's works are public domain.

**Quandaries****  
><strong>by Arithanas

_God has given us two hands,__  
><em>one to receive with and the other to give with.<em>  
><em>~Billy Graham<em>_

Bragelonne was not ready to receive visitors, but Porthos found it charming; Athos, almost ten days after, was still trying to assay if his words were pure courtesy or if he was really at ease in his little manor. Bragelonne was not ready, especially the house staff, anyone but Grimaud, Charlot and his wife was either scared or amazed by this loud gentleman who commanded like a master and joked like a peasant; while the real master of the house tried to maintain the discipline, without any apparent success. Bragelonne was not ready, and yet land, house, and people were having a guest. Yet, the best part of having Porthos as a guest was that he knew how to occupy himself without the need of having Athos by his side at every turn. As an example, today he was not around the manor; Athos and Raoul took their breakfast without company for the first time in ten days, Porthos rode out early with Mousqueton to take care of some personal affairs. Raoul missed badly the big ex-musketeer, but Athos realized the first food of the day tasted better without wine and he could speak to his child better without the booming laugh of Porthos sounding constantly on the dining room. Without oases of peace like those, Athos would have found his patience rather thin.

Athos, with a big sigh, pondered the facts as he watched how Raoul amused himself with a hoop made of a tree branch, a toy his new friend made for his exclusive delight. Was Athos having regrets for opening his home's door to his old friend? Not really. Raoul was sorely neglecting his studies but he was happy, the books could wait. His cellars were almost exhausted, there was not need to worry yet, and they are on the middle of the harvest. Athos's only remorse was for the wine consumed, he was aware his head was heavy, his movements were clumsy and his side was tender and it was starting to send some worrisome pangs.

A small grunt by his side distracted Athos from his meditations. Grimaud waited patiently behind him and presented his master a mug that let a faint smell of herbs. Tea, as was usual by these hours.

"Thank you," said Athos. Although Athos was not thirsty, he realized Grimaud's strategy: If the master was full of hot water it would be easier for him to reject wine when the guest makes an appearance. "Porthos will be here soon?"

Grimaud just grunted and covered the place with a look. The saloon was a little shabby, the silent testimony of two old friends that spent a night between wine and dice. The servant knuckled down to work in sullen silence, his attitude was less deferential and more judgmental than usual. Athos knew his valet was not happy because his work conditions were not suitable anymore; he opened his mouth but the promise died within. What use could have a promise if the other person doesn't believe in your good faith?

Raoul cried out his joy. Grimaud picked up the bottles. Athos raised his mug. It was as normal as it could except for the implicit threat in the eyes of the servant and the shame on the master's countenance. As Athos gulped the first mouthful of tea, and Grimaud carried away the empty bottles, the question was not _what_ but _when_. Both of them knew that it was just matter of time before Grimaud enforce his own warning and leave without a look back. These tense days were only the preamble of their lives without the other.

Alone, Athos tried to drink his tea.

There was no use. His body rejected the tea and Athos needed to sit in the windowsill to control the retching. Athos closed his eyes and tried to force his body to behave, it made no sense that it accept gladly the poison and reject violently the antidote. Inwardly, he cursed his lack of will; there was no need to drink for four and, while he suffered a renewed assault, he admitted to his secret heart that there was no need to drink at all. He had to stop; he wouldn't survive if he keeps this train of life. It was the weight of the look over him that cut short the commiseration fest. A heavy look, cold with disgust, hard in its despair, Athos opened his eyes just a fraction and searched the source around his person. Grimaud was polishing the glass and silver tumblers in stone cold silence; his eyes used to see his master warmly and this baleful look was a shock.

"I need to curtail the meat again..." Athos mumbled when the waves of nausea gave him a respite.

Grimaud huffed his scorn while he tidied up the shakers. The word carried by that huff was pure censure: "Wine."

There was no need to sweeten the pill to old Grimaud; mainly because he's the only person that really knew Athos inside out. If someone ask this man why his master was drinking, he would have a well thought answer and more articulated than the one Athos could give. Sometimes, Athos wanted to ask him directly, to force the problem out and to display it into clear and precise words, but he never dare. Athos was the son of his father, and never made a question of which he couldn't like the answer.

Another question, fated to be unuttered and thus unanswered, formed on his brain: _Why are you still here?_ Grimaud was a lot more reliable than him; if Grimaud said he would go away, he would go away, no matter what. Athos, figuratively and literally, had picked up the bottle again, for more than a week; somehow he had formed the idea that Grimaud would be going the very next morning they arrive Bragelonne; that his valet would put up with his inebriation just because he wanted to recover his meager personal effects, but that stubborn mute was still here.

"Are you done?" Athos asked when Grimaud placed the containers on the center of the table.

Grimaud shook his head, there was still job to do in that room, but his eyes darted toward the door. That simple detail helped Athos to guess the reason of his staying in Bragelonne. A child was poking his head by the door jamb. Blaisois' unruly long hair was in need of a good clipping but Athos hadn't found any way to command Grimaud to shear that mane; that interference on his valet's personal affairs seemed uncalled for.

"I wish to be alone."

Grimaud nodded, picked up his cleaning cloth and went to the door without a glance or a smile to his master, as would have done at other times. His valet didn't care to please his master anymore and he wasn't eager for his approval.

_Stay by my side_, Athos wanted to beg. Of course, those words will never ever leave his lips. Not even under torture.

Athos sighed as the boy went to Grimaud's side and his little hand darted toward that silent man's rugged hand on his way to kitchen. He didn't need to see Grimaud's face; he knew too well those slouched shoulders and that gait to recognize from far away how pleased Grimaud was with this little caress. Athos had been there with Raoul, he was not callous enough to cling to Grimaud, using Blaisois like a hostage. When that little roamer came trampling Bragelonne's gardens and the priest asked him to give the boy a home, Athos just did it without a regard to the eagerness on Grimaud's eyes because Raoul could use a playmate. Now, it doesn't matter if Athos had the child by the baptismal font, Grimaud was the godfather, the only one who loved and cared for that little orphan boy.

How long would before Grimaud shall have plenty of his master's attitude? How long before he figured out that he would take Blaisois with him and no one would have the heart to stop him?

**...**

Porthos came to the mansion like a gust of wind, calling Athos out with his great voice, but that didn't disturb the master of the house. Porthos threw his sword and cape over a chair with his best flourish and Athos didn't stir from his place on the windowsill, he just kept his relaxed stance, with his eyes lost in the distance and his hands around the empty mug. That was a personal offense in Porthos's book, but he didn't let that soured his good mood, he just passed his arm behind Athos' small back and picked him up.

"Wha-?"

Athos had not time to say anything more, since Porthos made the most of that movement and Athos found himself wrestling to save himself from a disagreeable meeting with the floor. The mug clanked on the floor while the two of them applied the best of their repertoire of holds and pushes. A wet cat wouldn't be less angry than Athos for that rude awakening.

"Are you ready to pay me some attention, my dear _host_?" Porthos said when Athos finally regained his feet and his senses.

"I'm ready to wrassle you into good manners!"

"It's that so?" Porthos beamed him a big grin. "You are lucky. I'm up for a little tussle!"

Both of them lounged forward, hands clasped to avoid grapples in that restricted space, taut muscles on the back, feet solidly planted. Porthos tried to overwhelm Athos with his weight, leaning forward, but Athos was not so easily intimidated; he applied his iron wrists into subdue Porthos' arms, bending his elbows and driving the force from the back to the chest. Porthos gave a step back, his mighty arms defeated from the wrist up, Athos' iron fingers were pushing his hands backwards; soon the movement would force him into a dishonorable retreat, therefore, it was necessary a shift in strategy. Athos' fingers lost their grip on Porthos' left hand and his body moved forward suddenly, a small exclamation left his lips. At that precise moment, Porthos need to launch his attack. A swift push with the hips and the free hand on the opponent's arm, materialized on a perfect throw on the side.

"Oomf!" It was not the most flattering commentary to that flawless technique, but at least Porthos got a reaction from his despondent host.

It was even better when Athos hooked his leg around his knee and made him fall to the floor. It was like the old days when they used to burn the spare energy like bear cubs, Athos tried to straddle his bulk but Porthos turned over and tried to topple him. Athos tried to apply force to counteract his shove, but his side was tender and the wave of pain gave Porthos the advantage. While they struggled to exceed the other, Grimaud passed by their side with exasperated grunt, ready to carry the glass and silver tumblers to a safe spot. Athos tried to steer the fight away from the furniture, but it was nigh impossible with Porthos' weight over his body.

"Leave my _pa_ alone!" a young voice surpassed the racket, surprising them both.

Raoul couldn't miss the pained expression on Athos face, he had seen it a couple of times and had feared it since. The opportunity arose when Porthos pinned Athos to the floor, then like a squirrel, the child clambered Porthos' back and threw his arms around that thick neck, barely missing Athos' face in his zeal to defend him.

"He got your grip, Athos!" Porthos laughed aloud while Raoul tried to improve his headlock with his legs around the adult's ribs.

As soon as Porthos rose from the floor, Athos sprang to his feet and passed his arms around Raoul's body who let him be picked up once the scuffle was stopped. His little face was lit up with pride. Athos' face was not so happy when he put his child on the floor.

"What was you thinking, Bragelonne?"

Raoul flinched, Athos voice showed his annoyance with sharp tones. It was obvious that Athos had never addressed that way to him before. Porthos could notice that Athos was just expressing his worry over Raoul's safety, but the child seemed hurt by that chiding.

"How dare you...?"

Raoul didn't let him continue; he turned around and ran away. Athos tried to follow his child, concern etched all over his face, but Porthos was quick to take him by the arm..

"I'll explain the whole affair to Raoul," Porthos said with conciliatory mood. "Do us a favor and put on your boots and spurs. I need you in another place."

"I should do it."

Athos, who was used to hide his reactions very well, couldn't help to show how upset he was. There was no way Porthos would let him face the child again until he had time to settle his ruffled feathers.

"Please, Athos." Porthos slapped him gently on the shoulder. "Let me see if get some experience handling children."

**...**

The small figure by the sycamores was slouched and shaky; Porthos need no more reference to know how to address the boy. Without asking for his consent, Porthos picked the boy up and carried to one of the stone benches. Raoul let out a small exclamation that cut short his sobbing; obviously in his four years no one handled him like one could handle baggage. Before the surprise ran out, Porthos sat that little man on his knee and produced a big kerchief which promptly used to wipe away the tears.

"Tell to Porthos what upset you back there," the big ex-musketeer asked once Raoul blew his nose and the kerchief was returned to its place.

"There was nothing, M. du Vallon," Raoul replied trying to save face. "I'm sorry I came uninvited."

"Well, on my part, you are forgiven for that little slip, but I want to know why you go away without an invitation."

"Do you need an invitation to go away?"

"Either that or an order," Porthos confirmed with a mocking, severe tone. "It's especially important if you are in front of the Count."

"Blaisois said one of these days Grimaud is going to go away without notice," Raoul share that bit of information with a sigh.

"Who's Blaisois?"

Silently, Raoul pointed out to the corner of the house. Grimaud was busy with the laundry and, in his shadow, a kid almost as young as the one in his lap, was handing him the clothespins. Porthos closed his eyes, weighing his role in that domestic affair.

"Does that make you sad?"

"Yes," Raoul swung his feet with his eyes down. "It also makes Blaisois sad."

"Then, I'll talk to Grimaud, but tell me why you ran away."

Raoul looked up Porthos; his eyes were starting to well up with tears again. Porthos wondered how Athos planned to cover the sun with his hat, if this child was made of the same wood: hard on the outside, soft in the inside.

"_Pa_ yelled at me."

The hurt was spilt out with the words; Porthos brushed away the bangs from Raoul's forehead. "Do you want to hear a secret about your _pa_?"

Raoul shook his head, "He would be angrier."

"I don't think so. He would never know, wouldn't he? You and me can keep a secret, can't we?"

Big, wet eyes saw Porthos, a quivering lip hung a little before a couple of arms went to his chest and that suffering face was buried on a rich doublet covered in dust.

"There, there," Porthos said while patting that curled hair, a little embarrassed because he never though Raoul would took shelter in his arms. "I know the Count is scary sometimes, but he loves you."

"He yelled at me!" Raoul sobbed and pull himself closer to his friend, a magnificent feat on itself, since the lap had a very constrained space.

"Because he was scared out of his mind, Raoul," Porthos rocked the crying child.

The little head shoot up and his eyes gave Porthos notice of Raoul's disbelief. "_Pa_ is never scared!"

"The Count is very capable of being scared, Raoul." Porthos said gently. "Not very often, I give you that, that's why he loose his marbles when fear visit him."

"But I tried to help him!"

"I bet he imagined _you_, crushed below _me_. I do not think the idea of an _omelette Raoul_ was very attractive to him."

Laugh bubbled behind Raoul's lips, as every child he had a very active imagination. Porthos let him laugh, it was better than to hear him cry.

"Just remember, Raoul, every time he roars, it's because he want to keep you safe, not because he's mad at you."

"Is that true?"

"Did I ever lie to you?"

Raoul said he didn't, and then he began to explain how much scared and guilty he was, but Porthos was not paying him attention; his mind was sorting out how to warn Athos that his right hand was about to abandon him.

**...**

Athos tried to settle his weight on the saddle. A short trip, Porthos said; it would be good for Athos to take some air, he said; just a little ride out to help Raoul to calm down, he said. He didn't explain, though, how to let Raoul play with Blaisois at home while they ride out would help the child. Athos tried to rein his temper just as well as he reined his horse; but the shakes and tremors of that horseback outing was not helping the pain on his side. Next to him, Porthos was babbling aloud about a heiress of the neighborhood who wanted something or another thing, Athos was not really paying him any attention, he was too used to let him talk until he would get tired of talking to himself and asked for some confirmation that Athos would give with deference but without interest.

"So, what do you think?" Porthos asked to him with a big grin, once he signaled a stop on their trip.

"About what, specifically?" Athos took off his hat to wipe away the sweat of his brow. It has been a very hot day; he had been sweating buckets all day long.

"About my new property, of course!"

As Porthos said those words, he opened his arms to signal the view before their eyes. Athos was utterly unimpressed. His escapades around the country had brought him to the little settlement of Bracieux more than once, and there was nothing remarkable on the landscape, if Porthos bought it he better be sure the farms would be rentable, but Athos kept his opinion to himself and composed a little smile.

"Quite quaint, Porthos."

"That's what I thought," Porthos alighted while Athos put back his hat. "I bought it from an impoverished vidame, I bought it all: castle, three farms, and cattle for a giveaway price," looking at his new kingdom with a faint smile on his lips. "Everything except the title, which his owner didn't consent to part away."

"That's a shame, but you deserves better."

"You are right, as always," Porthos took Athos' reins. "Bracieux is mine and now, I give it to you."

"Either I'm drunk or you are," Athos snapped with cold voice, but his horse tried to rear out, as he felt Athos' change of mood, "but I heard you utter some foolishness."

"You used to be sharper, Athos," Porthos said trying to conceal his ironic smile. "What did you said to D'Artagnan, there in La Rochelle? A benefit reproached is an offense committed, or something of that effect. Memory is not what it used to be..."

Memory was never Porthos' main virtue but Athos let it pass. Now he had an interest in that one-horse town because it could be the reason he would had to lay out one of his best friends with a hand-span of iron between chest and shoulder blades. There are things his pride wouldn't suffer willingly, not even if they are served by this big Picard.

"You took good care of a poor newcomer in Paris; without your intervention, I might not have ever been Musketeer. To not acknowledge your kindness would be rude, but to repay said kindness in your person would be an insult," Porthos articulated his arguments with the same hesitant voice of a pupil trying to answer one of his teacher's questions. Athos noticed he was thinking aloud. "I'm not paying your attentions in Paris with this little mud-splashed town, Athos. It is far from my intention. _Peste!_" Porthos took off his hat and scratched his head before turning his eyes toward his friend. "Do I need to tell you I loved Raoul since I saw him? Now he's _my boy_ and you better take good care of his properties, because Bracieux is my gift to him."

"Far too generous for a snot-nosed brat who is far too rich right now," Athos commented in wry voice.

"Raoul is rich." Porthos concurred and let go the reins. "Yes, I have seen Bragelonne; nonetheless, he's not rich enough to be my boy."

"You are annoying me. I advise you to restrain your generosity."

"No, and since you are so reluctant, I'll take care of this land myself. It will give me an excuse to visit my boy frequently." Porthos put his foot on the stirrup and put his weight on the saddle. "Raoul is meant to be a great gentleman like you. Some day he will be a fine groom and Bracieux would be his land, but for the time being you will receive the income and spend it on his upbringing."

Athos pulled the reins and felt the need to bang Porthos' head. "You can't force me to accept it."

Porthos saw his glacial expression, knowing too well that Athos was ready to take his hand to his sword. Disdainfully, Porthos smiled at him.

"You can't refuse," his reply was served with sweet tones. "It's a gift. For Raoul. You just happened to be the person who manages his riches."

Athos just pulled the reins and his horse gave some steps back, startled. Porthos had him between a rock and a very hard place. Such an offer was an insult, Athos wouldn't take charity, not even from the hands of the King himself; at the same time, and Athos couldn't refuse a gift for his son. Athos cursed the wine and Porthos in passing, because he never should have confessed that kids are expensive and now he was in this ominous hold, which was even more uncomfortable than the ones Porthos applied when they wrestle. His horse was getting frisky by the minute so he better keep his cool.

"I can't accept it, Porthos," Athos bent over to give his horse a caress to keep it calm and to avoid Porthos' eyes. "You are now head of a family."

"A family composed by two." Porthos said with a huff, "Do not fear that you put me to inconvenience, Athos, my lands in the valley are enough for a lady who developed some thrifty habits while she lived in Paris."

"You want a child."

"And you have a child, and as far as I can see, Have is bigger than Want."

"No way you change your mind, right?"

"_Parbleu_, no! I got this idea, and I stick to it!"

"Then, as Aramis used to say: let's take the half."

"Of the town?"

"Of the gift," Athos rose again on his saddle with a wince. "I'll take care of your new castle and your new farms, but I shan't take a _sou_," Porthos grumbled his disagreement, but Athos didn't mind him, "unless Raoul need something I can't provide."

"It doesn't suit me: I want you to spend it in Raoul."

"Trust me, Porthos. Raoul is well cared now, for giving him more would spoil him," Athos diverted his eyes to check his feet on the stirrup, "besides, God might give you a son anytime soon."

"And, if He doesn't?"

"Then, I'll let you do as you please," Athos conceded with a sigh that sounded like defeat, "but until that day, I refuse to take possession of your personal assets."

"That's some progress!" Porthos spurred his horse and shouted over his shoulder: "Come on! I'll race you to Bragelonne so you can draw up the accord to your liking!"

Porthos horse started with great impulse, in complete disregard of his rider's weight who was laughing happily and loudly. Porthos had his reasons to be so cheerful, after all, he had managed to bend Athos' will, and it didn't matter if it was just a little concession. He wondered if someone besides the king and M. de Treville had managed to pull that feat from the ever-proud ex-musketeer.

The footfall of his friend's horse sounded close, this was going to be a hell of a race if Athos was still in full possession of his sports enthusiasm. They would be unable to maintain the speed for long ―the poor beasts had their limits―, but they could reach the border of the forest before the call it quits. The dark head of Athos' horse was visible by their side, and soon the rest of the body passed Porthos' mount like an exhalation.

Riderless.

Porthos stopped the race and turned around.

Athos was lying on the dirt road...

**...**

Bragelonne was forewarned of the incident. The horse returned scared and without the master in the early night, that was enough to stir up a hornet's nest; but the service, led by Grimaud, was held tight to discipline. Mousqueton was impressed.

"Are you not going to send someone to search for _M. le Comte_?" Mousqueton asked his silent companion once the Viscount was seated at the dinner table.

He placed his query in earnest, but quietly, so they don't disturb the child who accepted the simple explanation that his tutor and the guest were on Blois. Grimaud shook his head and tightened his lips.

"Why?"

"He's with your master," was the reply as Grimaud peeked out the window to the courtyard, the grooms were getting torches and horses ready on the quiet, so they didn't disturb the little master. "He's safe."

"And if my master returns?"

"Then, I'd worry."

Briskly, Grimaud left the window, he had to put Raoul's to bed at normal times, that way he would minimize the hassle. Mousqueton went to the kitchen. A little snack would settle his upset stomach. He was sure his friend was not going to lose his cool that night.

Mousqueton was wrong, because when the child was in bed the big gates of Bragelonne were open to give way to a tired horse, loaded down with two riders, one of those, covered in dirt and blood. Mosqueton was by Grimaud's side as the hand which bore the torch waved erratically and the face which was lit up by it got the pallor of the funerary statues.

"Bring a surgeon," Grimaud ordered to his second-in-command. His voice was deep, and choked, yet clear.

Charlot, that was the name of the fellow servant, was a good fellow, but not the brightest candle of the castle. He tried to oppose some good reasons: it was dark, the nearest one was at Blois, maybe the Count was not so badly injured...

"Obey or be masterless!" Grimaud barked and ran to the stairs followed closely by Porthos who carried the insensible, and probably broken, body of the master of the house.


	12. Night Talk

**SUMMARY**: August 1637, Blois. Mousqueton remembered why there was never an idle talk when Grimaud was involved.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet's works are public domain.

**Night Talk****  
><strong>by Arithanas

_Night brings our troubles to the light,__  
><em>rather than banishes them.<em>  
><em>~ Seneca<em>_

The big woman washed the pots, her face was taut, worry seeped from her body and filled the kitchen; the small girl couldn't take her eyes from the big matron as her hands scrubbed the copper until it glimmered. Mousqueton wanted to take the knife from her hands, because she was being rather negligent as she chopped the turnips and the shallots and tomorrow soup risked to be seasoned with a good portion of human flesh. The little boy, with a strained smile, took the big pot from the woman's hands and the clean linen from the table, his hands shaking yet his stance proclaimed the unwavering confidence he had in the grown-ups around him. The woman tousled his hair while he dried the pot, a quick, maternal gesture. Not for the first time that night, Mousqueton wondered how they could keep working.

"The vegetables are ready, mistress," Said the maid as she cleaned that insanely sharp blade on her apron. "What do I do now?"

"Bring water," The cook said, selecting a marmite for the stew.

"I'll do it for you," Mousqueton volunteered once she left the table. It was a hard work for a child like her.

Cold silence rewarded his offering. The girl looked at the woman; the boy looked up to him with an anxious smile.

"So kind of you, _Maître_..." she hesitated, looked for a confirmation from the cook, who smiled faintly, "but it will be better if I do it myself."

"I don't understand..."

"I want to do it, sir," she said with a polite smile. "Hard work is what I... what _we_ need now."

"To work is to pray," said the boy and returned to his chore with renewed vigor.

The woman crossed herself before she picked up the lard scoop and left the room. The boy placed the big pot on the table and took up his rag to keep drying the utensils. So that was their secret: keep the hands busy to forbid the head to think. Mousqueton returned to his bench and kept his silence, it wasn't his place to question their methods since they seemed to cope with tension so well.

The girl returned with the bucket, the boy ran to help her, and then both of them started to scrub the floor with hard brushes and even harder soap. Not a word was uttered, not even when the undisputed queen of the kitchen returned to her work. A soup was composed with ease and efficiency, a queer recipe of stewed vegetables, flavored with roots and herbs in that most of the cooks called _bouquet garni_. The boy helped the woman to hang the marmite into the big stone heart. Done that, woman, girl and boy looked each other, uncertain of what to do now.

Whilst they sorted out their dilemma, Mousqueton held his hand out to pick up a trencher full of food that had been left on the counter. It was untouched and warm. This kind of uncertainty didn't fail to make him hungry. At his cue, the robust cook raised a wooden spoon as if to strike that offending hand, the girl quick as a squirrel to abscond the dish and the child looked at him with the eyes of a dog guarding his bone. Apparently, this one trencher was reserved for someone else.

No one had time to muster a further reaction, a tired grunt and a quizzed exclamation (_hein_?) was enough to bring the kitchen staff to order. The child cried his joy and ran to Grimaud's arms, the slim man not even tried to fight the ingrained movement to pick the boy up, but his eyes were on the adults and he noticed the silent question that hung in the air like the smoke of the heart.

"He's asleep."

As usual, he was laconic, almost lapidary, but the woman and the girl smiled and the boy in his arms expressed his relief with a sigh. Those people really loved their master.

"You need to dine, Jean-Benoît," the cook said, signaling the girl to place the much fought-over dish on the nicest spot by the fire.

With a grunt Grimaud went to the bench and the child wriggled out of his arms and ran toward the pantry to bring out the bread and to serve it next to the diner; the girl poured some wine on a tin cup and her hand rested on her chief for a brief moment, a touching sign that spoke volumes about her appreciation.

"Thank you, Babette," Grimaud's voice was still coarse by the lack of use, but it had a nice tingle of gratitude. "Go to sleep. Hot water. Early in the morning, please."

"Of course, _Maître_," she said and smiled. "Good night to you all."

The boy smiled to her and ran to the larder to bring a small portion of fresh butter. Grimaud grinned as he broke the bread and spread a good deal of the oily substance over the crumb. Grimaud raised his eyes to Mousqueton and gave him a sad smirk, before passing the snack to the boy who sat by his side and nibbled it happily. That was something that Grimaud used to do every time they dined at his master's house in Rue Férou, but now, the gift was for the little rascal, not for his friend.

"He's a growing boy," Mousqueton said, understanding his reasons.

Grimaud nodded and attacked his dish, using the rest of his bread to carry the stew to his mouth.

"There is hot water," the woman said and wriggled her hands on her apron, "Tea?"

Grimaud shook his head; he was busy chewing a morsel.

"Then, I will go home," she announced with resolved voice while she untied her apron. "Any message for Charles?"

"He's to serve tomorrow. I can't."

"Alright."

"The stables?"

"I'll see that he checks up those lazy bones of the stable boys."

A tired grin appeared on his face. "Good night, Euphrasie."

"I pray for your rest, Jean-Benoît," she said and her hand slapped Grimaud's head playfully. "You need some sleep."

"Soon."

"Pah, promises!" She turned towards Mousqueton and nodded to him, "Good night, sir."

"Good night, good woman."

Silence fell over the kitchen. As the boy and the man dined, Mousqueton noticed the great affection between those two, there was no need to big words and caresses displayed to show their bond; if was kind of baffling to noticing a hint of paternal affection in his always sober peer. The boy saw him with a glint of admiration while he ate but, as soon as the food was consumed, Blaisois found a place to sleep in the hard bench and closed his eyes, using Grimaud's meager thigh as a pillow with complete ease. Grimaud acknowledged this action with an off-hand caress to that long hair and returned to his trencher.

"Good boy," Mousqueton whispered, because he didn't want to disturb the hard working boy's rest. "Is he yours?"

"Sort of," Grimaud was talkative as ever. "Master's charity. My responsibility."

"Does he have a name?"

"Blaisois."

"Quite imaginative."

A shrug was the only reply. It was obvious that he didn't like the appellative either.

"Your master is quite generous. I would never suspect that from him."

"Big heart. Always told you so."

"Rather difficult to believe, given the way he always treated you."

Grimaud gave him a long hard look. The usual reaction anyone could get if they dare to criticize M. Athos in his presence. Those friends had had that discussion many, many times on the past, but none of them had found the winning argument yet, but none of them was ready to concede the victory. The facts were simple: there had been occasions in which M. Athos laid his hand on Grimaud, but it was also a fact that Grimaud wouldn't be there if his master had not a redeeming quality.

"At least you have some help" Mousqueton yielded in deference of this delicate situation. "You are the big dog here, now."

A derisive smile decorated Grimaud's face for a moment. That gesture said the other servants were not a big help.

"That woman called you Jean-Benoît. Are you trying to get a new name? Because that idea crosses my mind, once in a while."

A snort. Short and dry.

"What's so funny?"

"My father gave me that name."

"Lo and behold! You really had a Christian name all this time. Why you never cared about sharing it?"

Grimaud shrugged and scraped the bottom of the bowl with a piece of bread. "You never asked."

"And she did?"

A firm nod and a sated sigh was the answer. Grimaud shifted his weight on the bench and the boy stirred and grumbled when his pillow slide below his head; the little hand clutched a bony knee as if to prevent any further movement and a brief smile appeared on Grimaud. It was unexpected, he almost seemed happy.

"She's quite nosy," Grimaud said once his weight was re-settled and the little rascal returned to his sleep, "but she's a good woman."

"And you gave her fodder to her little vice. How much have you changed!"

It was not a question, just an exclamation to express his disbelief, maybe even his approval; but his fellow servant dropped his eyes and drew a sharp breath. Mousqueton knew that stance, that very expression. Grimaud was thinking hard on his words and the ideas behind that always composed facade were not quiet or peaceful. Mousqueton felt it for his friend because his silence and efficiency hid a grief, like he had been bearing a secret ache for too long. Those servants hid their anxiety under the load of work, they learned it form the best of the trade.

After a while, Grimaud nodded and uttered a single word.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I did," obviously, Grimaud believed that was a complete explanation for he moved to another affair and drank a sip of his wine, his hand on that boy's back as if to guard him form a fall.

"I don't read minds, my good fellow!"

"I have changed."

Mousqueton had to stop his hands from roaming over the table to pick any edible morsel at his disposition. It was a reflex, to eat without think when he felt an upsetting situation is about to happen. Then he raised his eyes and examined his fellow servant, who was so calm it was unsettling.

"Why have you changed?"

"The yoke is heavy."

A sigh and then it was Grimaud's turn to make an unexpected movement: he extended his hand and petted the child's hair; a grief-stricken gesture, if Mousqueton ever saw one. Grimaud never displayed his unhappiness at Rue Férou where hunger and maltreat were everyday fare, but he was wretched in this charming chatelet where he had respect and food aplenty. Mousqueton only had the half of his share and was bursting of glee. Sometimes the good Norman wanted the wiseacre of Bazin around because the deeps of some human souls were really scary.

"Life is not better than in Paris?"

Grimaud gave his friend an absent nod before adding for good measure: "but unfulfilling."

"My master said you are to leave the castle."

"Can't stay," Grimaud's hand stroke the child's hair again with the gentle rhythm of a mother caressing her baby, "Hurt so much to see him die."

Mercifully, the topic was brought to the light with all its awful details. It was not about what honors his position had or how much it let him rest; It was about how tight were the bonds that bind them and how little he could do to stop the most likely end of his master.

"We all are dying."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Mousqueton knew it was the wrong thing to say; Grimaud squared his shoulders and looked at him with the disdainful expression of a teacher scolding an unruly student; a thin line of outrage was drew on his lips.

"Yes, but he's killing himself."

There was no way to argue that argument. Mousqueton racked his brain trying to find a way to tell him that he's in no way accountable if his master wished to drink unhealthy amounts of spirits as is his custom, but the words he blurted were hardly thought.

"Why should you care?"

Grimaud ducked under the table and his hands picked up the young rascal with unutterable care, the boy didn't stirred even when his weight was settled over a rawboned shoulder. Once he was on his feet, he planted his hand on the table with a force that made the trenchers and pots clatter. The boy bolted his head up but, since Grimaud was too busy pinning his friend in his place with an unforgiving gaze, he returned it to its place and nuzzled the dirty shirt without any other concern than his own comfort.

"'Cause my master is more than a well laden purse!" Grimaud didn't shout —lest he wanted to do was to rouse the boy—, but his raspy, deep voice left little doubt about how much that last question stung him.

They both see each other with expressions of belligerent contempt; none of them wanting to back off their positions. After a long pause, Grimaud nodded to wish him good night and walked to the door with the kid on his shoulder. Mousqueton followed him with his eyes, part of him wanted to mumble an apology whilst the other wanted to shout him that he was a moron, but Grimaud really didn't give him time to do either: he was out in such a short time, not like he was running away, far from it, he was leaving the fight with the dignity of an unscathed soldier returning to camp after a pitched battle.

Mousqueton looked at the dirty dishware on the table; his eyes went to the half loaf of bread...

Soon after, with a towel around his ample belly, he prepared to wash the dishes.

To work is to pray, and God knew that he had a good lack of it.


	13. Bring Him Back

**SUMMARY**: August 1637, Blois. The truth about Athos health was in the open and Porthos had to find a way to recover his friend's health and to make Raoul happy at the same time  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.

**Bring Him Back****  
><strong>by Arithanas

_There is one consolation in being sick;  
>and that is the possibility that you may recover<br>to a better state than you were ever in before.  
>~Henry David Thoreau<em>

Porthos was not made to wait.

He knew he couldn't put his eyes for a long time on that damned paneled door that Grimaud slammed unceremoniously in his face once the physician entered Athos' room.

The waiting could be more endurable if he could hear Athos' voice or the physician's voice, but he can only hear the distant clanking of horrible medical instruments and the flapping of the bed linen. It didn't come to his mind that his heavy footsteps in the floorboard might be drowning most of the sounds. For a moment Porthos believed to hear a sharp cry from the other side, but it was brief and he was not sure his ears were no playing tricks on him.

He resumed his pacing, just in time for seeing the young apprentice of the physician run out with the room with a washbasin filled with bloody water and bloody rags. Two strides were enough to be at the threshold, pushing the door to find a way inside, but Grimaud's stern face and the physician's voice made him stay behind closed doors, with the disturbing feeling he was letting a friend behind enemy lines.

It was hard, but Porthos had to resign himself to wait.

...

The door opened with a little crack, Porthos stirred in Athos' chair, where he found a spot to wait and from which Mousqueton couldn't make him move; at the weak light of the wee hours of the morning the physician looked sinister and Grimaud behind him, with gaunt expression, didn't make him entertain high hopes.

"… The shoulder and the bruises are not the worst I have seen, but _M. le comte_ must drink the remedy or he's bound to never recover."

"Dry cup," Grimaud recapped, with his marvelous capacity to sum up even the most complex situation.

"And rest, _M. le Comte_ need to rest, _Maître_ Grimaud," the physician almost hissed at the end of the sentence. "That fever is most dangerous in his condition…"

"Bed bellow stairs," Grimaud just nodded at the indications as he herded he physician out of Athos' studio, "I'll see _M. le Comte_ rest this night."

Athos was trying to set himself in his rumpled bed, the sheet slid over his hip and Porthos got a good view of the mean bruise in his friend's thigh, the small cuts in his side, the discoloration of his shoulder among the dressing that bound his right arm to his chest. Porthos stared at his struggles and felt a void in his gut as impotence began to set, the sudden realization that there was no way he could help his friend was a novel and distressing experience. Luckily, he had no time to wallow in that gut wrenching feeling, an annoyed grunt behind him let him know that help was on their way.

Grimaud took good care of preserving his master's modesty before placing one knee on the mattress and his arms around the hurting man and hoist him to the pillows with one single pull. Porthos wondered how many times before that scrawny alley cat had to settle Athos on his bed to make the whole operation seems so effortless. There was a slight grimace in Athos' face when his weight was finally put on the pillows.

"Hmm," Grimaud grunted before he turned his attention to sheet and comforter.

That sound made the patient react even if slightly, Athos' eyelids fluttered and he turned his head around, like he used to do when he was far too drunk.

"Porthos…" Athos murmured when his eyes fell on him, "You can approach; I won't stain your clothes again. Promise. I'm clean inside out…"

"That's not a trouble at all," Porthos feigned a smile and rest his weight against the mattress, "Mousqueton need something to idle his time away. How are you feeling?"

"Ready to continue the scuffle where Raoul interrupted us…"

Porthos' eyes followed Grimaud as the servant dipped a rag in cold water, waiting for an explanation.

"Valerian," Grimaud mouthed and busied himself in dabbing on his master's brow.

At least that made some sense: The physician gave Athos something and he was not master of his mind at the moment; Porthos was aware he must adjust his reactions accordingly.

"Maybe later, when there is enough daylight."

"Agreed," Athos tried to swat away Grimaud's weary figure from his line of sight.

Grimaud, with harrowing expression, followed through the task at hand and slipped a hand behind his master's nape while approaching a metal tumbler to Athos' lips.

"I won't drink that awful brew!" Athos protested and tried to turn his head, closing his eyes.

"What's that concoction?"

"Milk thistle," Grimaud grumbled and made another attempt to make his master drink, with equal lack of success.

"Let it go, Grimaud," Porthos took the tumbler from the servant's hand. "He will drink it when he gets thirsty."

With a grumble, Grimaud retired from bed and went to tidy up the place after the visit of the physician. If Athos hadn't imposed his will upon him so fiercely, Porthos was sure the servant would be grumbling his opposing view in the matter.

"Porthos…"

"Tell me," Porthos approached to Athos, because his friend's voice sounded weak.

"Don't you ever," Athos' left hand hooked on Porthos' shirt with the strength of desperation. "Hear me well, don't you ever let Raoul in!"

"Athos!"

"Swear it!"

"On my word!" Porthos said, mostly because Athos inspired on him a sort of wary respect when he glanced that way.

Athos let Porthos' shirt go and sunk in his sweat-drenched pillows; to threat a friend was an exhausting business, every musketeer knows that. Porthos sat on the bed and listened how his friend mumble a little to himself before falling asleep, it brought bittersweet memories of younger days and let his mind drift away from how to deal with Raoul, now the kid had been vetoed from this little room.

...

The first days there was not a lot of fuss over the "absence" of the master of the house; apparently, Grimaud had the entire house staff warned —and watched from his master's bedchamber— and the service had the same punctuality to serve meals and the same high standard to do the beds and to care for the needs of the guest; even Raoul made the attempt of act like a host, but he got bored and soon the kid reduced himself to hang by the window that overlooks the gate, waiting for the Count.

Like Raoul, Porthos only wanted his friend's company to be completely at ease.

That last element was hard to get, even when they share the same roof; for a room where silence was sought, there were a whole lot of visits at the most inconvenient hours. Porthos could only sneak into Athos' room either very early in the morning or real late in the night, which is not the best time to try to cheer a man who is either shivering with fever or trying to recover from a demanding day.

Porthos mostly get his notifications on Athos' health by the fleeting presence of Grimaud, who ran up and down the stairs with bundles of bed linen or trays with liquids, his harrowed face could be mistakenly thought to be provoked by labors, but Porthos only needed a glance to be sure: The situation was not improving.

...

On fifth day morning, at the time of his usual visit, Porthos was greeted by a couple of baleful blue eyes. Athos fought fever and, apparently, won, yet that didn't meant his friend was welcomed into his bedchamber. Mousqueton, always obliging when gossip was an issue, had informed Porthos about how no other servant than Grimaud has permission to step into the studio, let alone the bedchamber. And, Porthos sincerely understood the train of thought of his friend, but that did not mean that the rules might be extended to his person, especially as a guest.

Those eyes begged to differ, nevertheless Porthos refused to be bullied.

"I can see you have returned to your senses," Porthos said by way of greeting.

"Faith! I feel better now, that's true," Athos said from his usual place on de pillows, and even if his voice was hoarse, the words were polite, but it was obvious they were chosen because they disregard Athos' actual state and show at the same time that the greeting was not earned Porthos any gratitude.

"Then, my dear host," Porthos dragged one chair by the side of the bed, "command a little breakfast to your mute and let us share just like we did years ago."

Grimaud let them both alone as soon as the faintest signal from Athos' head was issued.

"Now we are safe from prying ears, Athos, tell me, how this whole mess came to happen?"

"I lost grip of my reins," Athos gruffly admitted, resting his gaunt cheek against his bruised shoulder. His eyes had lost their intimidating quality, although they were still fierce.

"…and your stirrups and your saddle, _pardieu_!" Porthos exclaimed, "I know you. You are far too good rider to fell so brutishly off a horse simply because reins escaped your hand."

"That's not my meaning," Athos closed his eyes and pressed his ashen lips together. "Give me a sip of water, Porthos, I'm thirsty."

That's a good thing to do; in Porthos' book it meant that his presence was useful. He reached the side table with a couple of strides and he found a pitcher right away, but a cup was a little more difficult to find, and the only tumbler in sight was filled with cloudy water. The milk of something Grimaud was trying to make him drink.

"Why don't you try this, Athos?" Porthos offered him the metal tumbler filled with the remedy, "It's still warm…"

"And bitter like a witch's tit," was the immediate rebuke. Athos shook his head as a negative response; even though Porthos was quite sure Grimaud only offered his master the remedy to soothe his thirst. "Water will be enough."

Porthos shrugged since he knows how difficult it was to make Athos change his heart, and he had to fight only the most essential battles, for now. It took him to move some rags and dark bottles to find a cup and to fill it with cold water.

"Here. Have your fill," Porthos presented the cup and didn't let it go until Athos had it secure in his hand, and waited until he took the first sip before pointing to the metal tumbler and asking with feigned innocence: "What's that?"

"It is a horrid herb concoction that supposedly will help my aching body. Grimaud has blind faith on it and the physician too," Athos commented between small sips, "but I hate it, it makes me feel weak and it gives me the devils."

"The devils?" Porthos watched as Athos dried the cup

"Have you ever felt that intense shivering the morning after you had had too much wine?" Athos asked and extended his cup for another sip of water.

"I had had them," Porthos admitted and gave his friend another ration.

"Increase them tenfold and enhance them with a wicked megrim," Athos described before sipping the cold water greedily. "Those are the devils. You could do me a favor and toss it through the window, if it sits there too long the good doctor and Grimaud will find another way to get it into me. "

"But how…?" Porthos didn't finished uttering the question before the answer formed into his brain and made him blush. "Oooh..."

Athos made no comment; he was too busy trying to put the cup in good stead to get a gulp for his parched mouth.

Well, Porthos said to himself, it he could spare Athos that little indignity…

...

Porthos went downstairs once Grimaud's eyes became so insistently pressing that the message couldn't be ignored. It was better to spend some time with Raoul, because the boy might be too lonely, maybe Porthos could interest him in a good ride to lift their spirits, but the scene which greeted Porthos was the same of the previous days: Raoul approached a bench to the window and kept his eyes attached to the gate, waiting for a dark horse to canter through it with Athos on his back.

It's a shame it wasn't going to happen any time soon.

Next to the boy there was a dish with some pieces of bread, boiled eggs, and some slices of cheese. It was a light breakfast for Porthos but a pretty hearty one for Raoul.

"Good day, Raoul," Porthos greeted and sat by the boy in the ledger.

Raoul sulked and didn't reply the salute. Porthos was just out of his father's bedroom; the kid could sneer at him all the morning and still wouldn't make a chip in his armor.

"Are these any good?" Porthos asked, and extended his hand to grab one of Raoul's _echaudés_.

That really caught Raoul's attention; he got his eyes on Porthos as the bread was carried to that bearded face, before extending his hand to stop the adult from eating his sweet and rather hard breakfast.

"Men don't eat sweets."

"Of course men eat sweets. You only need a sweet and a mouth. Who told you that?"

"_Pa! _And you can't have my sweets!" Raoul pouted and snatched the piece of sweet bread from that massive hand, "you have already taken a lot from me!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You took my _pa_ away!" Raoul spat in the heights of his temper tantrum, he even banged his legs against the bench. "Bring him back!"

"But, Raoul…" Porthos started but he couldn't continue.

"Bring _him_ _BACK_!"

For someone so small, Raoul had a surprise force in his little lungs. Porthos had to retreat in a hurry, because the child was asking for something Porthos wouldn't give him, not without giving him a lot of explanations that fall out of his competence.

...

That very night, Porthos found himself in his bed, unable to sleep because Raoul has some reason in his spat. If he wouldn't race Athos, his friend wouldn't ever fell down of his horse. Trying to reason with the child was of no use if Athos was being adamant about no visitors. So, the first step was obvious.

Still closing his dressing gown he crossed the corridor and found Athos' studio door in complete obscurity; he was used to the disposition of the house, and had wised up enough to know he should not knock at the door; if the physician was in he could always mutter an apology. And, in his defense, he couldn't expect the sight of Athos' room that night.

Part of his bewilderment was due to the whole sensation of déjà vu, because it was Rue Férou all over again: In the dim light of a solitary candle Porthos saw Grimaud, kneeling by the bed with his clothes smeared with blood —Athos' blood— while his master had his head on the servant shoulder with a rictus of agony in the face. The other part came from the fact that there should be no blood!

Porthos choose to let the memory guide him, instead of stand by the threshold. Good grief! He was a soldier once!

"Go for help, you fool!" He commanded and took his place, so Athos was well cared for in this servant's absence.

Grimaud run from the spot, not taking a moment to wipe the blood from his face, perhaps he was more concerned in drag the damned physician in. Porthos gave Athos his complete attention, his friend was mewling in pain, and his voice was barely passing his clenched teeth. Athos was holding the pain inside by the sheer force of his will.

"You can howl, Athos," Porthos murmured, trying to move him into the bed, but he lacked the poise and ease of Grimaud though he tried to be careful, "If it hurts so bad, maybe cry out would help."

Athos shook his head faintly; it was barely noticeable, but Porthos was well aware of when Athos' eyes squinted hard as a new wave of pain racked him. It took Porthos some moments to realize Athos' screams would rouse Raoul, and if big Porthos couldn't make a thing, the boy would be even more powerless and upset. Porthos understood and braced himself to withstand the eternal minutes ahead until help arrive.

...

More waiting, Porthos had to fight against the need to kick down that damn door.

The day was shining bright when the physician left Athos' bedchamber, and Porthos felt something similar to pity to him, for about three heartbeats.

"How's _M. le Comte_?"

A sad shake was his only answer before considering his job done and starting his way towards the exit. Porthos was having none of it.

"Tell me," Porthos insisted his massive hand on the frail shoulder of that mousey man.

Then, it was obvious why this little man was Athos' physician and not any other man who can wrestle him to health. The quality of this man death glare can rival with the most vicious one Athos could muster.

"I can't discuss my patient's health with anyone. I already did a great exception with _Maître_ Grimaud because I need his help!"

"Well, good man, let me help you!"

That threw the physician into disarray; Porthos assumed that the man had not a person ready to lend a hand in this kind of situations

"That man is my family. _Peste_, let me help!"

"There is nothing you can do now;" the physician admitted reluctantly, "his body is mauled, that is, not counting the issues he had before. I did what was in my hand, now he's on God's hands."

"What troubles?" Porthos was too garrulous to be thunderstruck, "He never tell me about any trouble!"

It was obvious the physician was biting his tongue.

"His youth is catching up with him," the wording was careful. "God knows what was in his head to make him drink so much wine when I explained to him to exhaustion that it would do him no favors."

_Because I'm an old man, with old man aches. _

Athos, cryptic as always, had told his friend his health was not good. All was there; just Porthos didn't give him the due attention, and that made Porthos feel pretty selfish.

_I lost grip of my reins._

Suddenly, the phrase made sense. Athos was not talking about horses, but about wine. Athos knew he was not supposed to drink, and he was being just polite chugging down whatever Porthos poured into his cup. Porthos knew the guilt was not his, Athos should tell Porthos that wine was not the best idea. The rage –and the sudden desire to flip Athos' nape with all his might— was being wasted at this time, when the physician was seeing him with compassion for his ignorance.

"Well, I'll add my prayers to yours…" Porthos said, walking with the physician to the studio's door.

"He'll do better if you can convince him to drink whatever we put in his cup," the physician simpered, almost as he was reading Porthos' mind, "it seems that _that's_ your forte."

Porthos suppressed the need to slap the smirk off of his face and instead, he swung the door open. "I'll see to it."

The physician took his chance to scape and almost ran through the hallway, making just a pause to acknowledge a presence with a little bow. Once the physician turned the corner, Porthos found himself in front of the dirtiest look of his collection: Little Raoul, in his nightgown, bared feet and arms akimbo, glared at Porthos. The kid was a complete image of righteous indignation.

"Raoul…"

The boy huffed and turned around to run away, he was surprisingly quick for someone of his size and Porthos, who was getting fed up with closed door, was left out the kid's private room.

"Raoul, let me in!"

"Can't!" Raoul shouted from inside, "I'm sleeping!"

"Then, how are you answering me?"

There was silence at the other side of the door. In spite of everything, Porthos found the situation hilarious.

"You lied to me!" Raoul finally said, his voice conveyed how disappointed and betrayed he felt.

"If you let me in, I'll explain."

The door cracked open, Raoul was standing there, a wary look in his eyes.

"He was here, and you didn't tell me. I know why." the boy cast down his eyes. "_Pa_ doesn't want to see me…"

Porthos shook his head and opened his arms; Raoul ran into them and buried his face in his shirt.

...

That day it was impossible to get into Athos' room, but as soon as the night fell Porthos found the door unguarded; a quick peek inside the room was enough to confirm that Athos was fast asleep on his pillows, his complexion had a yellowish color, so different of his regular pallor, but at least it seemed like he was a little better as a result of the cares of the Cerberus who had fallen asleep with his head in the mattress and his rear in a footrest, maybe he was lulled into sleep by the rain it started to fall at twilight.

Porthos had to admit he was impressed with Grimaud's stamina.

Trying not to rouse the servant, Porthos carried him outside of the room, and let Grimaud catch his rest in his master's chair, because there was something he wanted to try; in this case, the lest the merrier. Porthos took a moment to retrieve some implements from his room, some little things the helpful Mousqueton help him subtract from the pantry. The physician tried to be ironic, but Porthos took the challenge seriously.

Athos was half asleep, since he felt Porthos taking away Grimaud, but he got completely awake as soon as he noticed Porthos presence, he was always like that. His eyes were cloudy and of a strange color, but Porthos imputed it to the candle.

"Hello, my dear host," Porthos said, it was impossible for him to whisper in the dead of the night, "I'm here to keep you company."

Athos tried to protest; he opened his mouth but never get to utter a syllable. Porthos had a spoonful of honey ready and passed it thought his parted lips at the first chance. It was really simple to figure out the dilemma: Athos hated his remedy because it was bitter, well, a little honey surely would help it go down.

_Men don't eat sweets._

Porthos was aware that Athos had not a sweet tooth in his mouth or else he would not be teaching Raoul that kind of claptrap, yet he didn't expect the reaction he got. Athos bolted upright; trying to spit the honey for the spoon was a simpler task. There was little success. Nobody ever thought on spit honey, Porthos was sure, because most of the people actually like honey.

"Here, Athos, wash the taste away," Porthos offered him the metal tumbler with its contents of cloudy water.

The haste invested in draining the metal cup was surprising, Porthos saw him toss it off with all his former drinking enthusiasm. He wouldn't drink it better if it was wine.

"You are a brute, are you aware?" Athos growled, using his arm to dry his lips.

"There, there," Porthos muttered taking the tumbler of his hand before Athos could think of smashing it into his guest's head. "You had to forgive a friend a harmless prank."

"Only if you give me water. I still feel the damned sweetness in my mouth!"

Porthos glanced at the pitcher by the bed; in all certainty it would be full of well water.

"That numbskull of Grimaud didn't bring water," Porthos rose from the bed and picked up the pitcher, "I'll bring you some."

Athos give him a wary look, "You are unusually concise tonight, Porthos."

"Well, it _is_ the middle of the night," Porthos lied as he approached the door, "People are sleeping. The fact you are pouring your annoyance on me doesn't mean I'm not respecting the sleep of Grimaud's little boy or your round cook, or that old broad man that watches your horses…"

Athos groaned and turned in his bed, which only said that he preferred the brief Porthos.

Now, to the next part of the plan. Porthos left the pitcher on Athos desk and made a dash to Raoul's room, the boy was harder to awake than Athos, but easier to maneuver; Porthos carried him in his arms and tell him a story, Raoul drank it directly with that innocence only little kids had in this world. When they returned to Athos' bedroom they found him dozing. The remedy must have something to help him sleep. That didn't deter Raoul from crawling to the headboard and to found himself a place under Athos' arm.

"What…?" Athos cracked open his eyes. "Raoul?"

"Someone came to visit," Porthos explained while Raoul did his best to kiss Athos in the beard.

"You shouldn't be here…"

"I know." Raoul was making his best to get Athos' good arm around his shoulder. "Emir hurt _M. le Comte_ and he must rest!"

"And you must let the good doctor do his work."

"Yes, _M. le Comte_," Raoul agreed, pulling the sheet around them.

"And keep Porthos company," Athos tried to suppress a yawn.

"Yes, _M. le Comte_," Raoul concurred, nestling himself against the broad, bandaged chest.

Athos sighed; it took his time to realize the battle was lost. Porthos smiled to the both of them in the bed and decided to let them sleep together. He did his best to sneak out the room, but his huge mass let little leeway. Athos' eyes followed him to the door.

"Porthos," Athos called out before he could make his scape and Porthos waited for his grateful words, but the big Picard was somewhat disappointed when the words were: "I'll have your hide."

Porthos closed the door, resolving, out of spite, to pay Athos' physician handsomely. Let's see how that suits him!


	14. The Little Stranger

**SUMMARY**: September 1637, Blois. As Athos' recovery progress, Bragelonne was graced with the addition of a little stranger.  
><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> Dumas & Maquet works are public domain

**The Little Stranger**  
>by Arithanas<p>

_With any recovery from morbidity,  
>there must go a certain healthy humiliation.<em>  
>Gilbert K. Chesterton<p>

"Just give me the cup!" Athos voice could be heard by the open door. "I'll take the remedy without any honey!"

"Man up and take the honey in one draught!" Porthos called from the threshold. "It is your assurance against the devils. The doctor said so. A stroke of genius he called that fortunate prank of mine."

Inside the room, Porthos could see how Raoul straddled his bedridden father's legs, trying to feed him the mandatory spoonful of honey, as was prescribed. Athos was trying to escape from it again; a situation that confirmed Athos had not a sweet tooth in his body.

"Divine inspiration, I tell you, _M. le Comte_!" The doctor confirmed from the other side of the wall, which was a good measure because Athos was in his best day to deliver murderous gazes.

"I'm quite serious, Athos: man up!"

Since that blessed night of the blood Porthos stepped up and took Grimaud's place as Athos's guardian and the good surgeon seemed to respect that.

"So, how's the patient?"

"You can judge his condition by how loud his protests are voiced," the man said and stifled a bout of laughter. "He still needs some rest, but if this auscultation shows that everything is in its due place, _M. le Comte_ might be fit to rise from his bed and walk around a bit today."

"Glad to hear good news," Porthos couldn't help to feel a little proud.

"May I see my patient now?"

Porthos opened the door and came to the rescue his friend from his tiny tormentor; Athos seemed to appreciate the help but his eyes over the brim of the cup looked shocked when Raoul used his legs to hug Porthos' wide frame. As if it wasn't be expected for them to be chums.

"Chug down that nasty brew, Athos!" Porthos encouraged and used his arm to steady Raoul's body. "The doctor has great news to you today. He had just told me so, so be grateful and don't give him pointless grief."

"Spare me your condescendence." Athos had time to say between sips.

"Is he?" Raoul's face couldn't hide his excitement.

"Oh, yes, indeed. Good news are on the way." Porthos carried the child away, without giving a spare glance to the ill man, "And maybe if Athos is well behaved and the doctor let him be up and about, we can tell him about the little stranger this night…"

"What little stranger?" Athos managed to ask before the door closed behind Porthos.

...

The routine of the house was thrown upside down around midday, when usually the servants were getting ready for a small repast. Porthos got all of them in motion, because the master was to take a stroll, the corridors were to be free and some furniture were to be set aside, for there those were an inconvenience for two men walking side by side.

Athos, resting his weight on Porthos' broad shoulder, hobbled his first steps in a fortnight. If it wasn't for the jaundice, he would be horribly pale; even Raoul noticed how much effort was implied in the short distance between Athos' rooms and the stairwell of the back steps. Porthos, who knew Athos would die in silence rather than to ask for help, decided to act by the rule of least effort.

"Faith!" The exclamation was made in such a loud voice that all the onlookers, Athos included, turned their heads to see him.

At that precise moment, Porthos swept Athos off his feet, prompting a shocked gasp on Grimaud's part, a cheer on Raoul, and a loud exclamation on the rest of the staff who would never dared to lay hands on the master of the house when he could be, even if barely, able to move by his own will. Porthos secured his hands around Athos' shoulders and knees, feeling his friend stiff as a board.

"I believe you've lost a considerable amount of weight, dear."

Porthos overstepped the boundaries of his cockiness with the last dear, because Athos recovered the ability to speak.

"Put me down, Porthos!"

"You hardly represent any weight at all," Porthos protested and, to prove his point, he gave two long strides, leaving behind the rest of the entourage, "there is no need to issue any word of gratitude."

"I can walk, on my word!"

"I know you can walk," Porthos retorted and passed Athos' legs over the banister, "but the doctor said you need a sun cure and at this rate, by the time you reach the landing, it would be midnight!"

There was no way to dignify such statement with an answer and Athos shut his mouth, silently consenting to be carried down the stairs. Silence was his armor against this little humiliation and Porthos acknowledged it and not even Raoul's entreaties made him utter a word until they reached the little yard inside the castle, by the hot house and at short distance of the kitchen. The place was furnished with an old, heavy armchair and one of the benches of the servants, Porthos grunted his approval and laid Athos weight in the chair while Raoul was prating about how that was Athos' favorite chair in the salon.

"Yes, yes, Raoul, now go somewhere and play for a bit," Porthos said, ruffling the boy's hair, "The Count and me had to talk about boring things."

"Alright!" Raoul said and waited until Athos granted his nod of approval. "I shall come back later."

"Did you really know this was my favorite siting furniture?" Athos asked with a faint smile, his eyes were following Raoul's way to the stables.

"No, but Raoul felt the need to comment on it, I was just being polite."

"What are those boring things you wanted to talk about?"

"First things first. Grimaud!"

Grimaud poked his head out of the kitchen, just of enough to heed the call properly. Athos noticed his hands were not visible; he was concealing his midday food.

"The papers! And something to drink!"

"You are getting used to boss people around, I see."

"You were not available and the void was felt. I was trying to maintain some sense of stability. Now, off with the dressing gown, you need to get all the sun you can!"

Athos let himself to be disrobed, half an ear on Porthos continuous chatter, part of him trying to master the itch that have been driving him crazy the last days.

"…And then, I notice it was better to call you my overseer in Bracieux so you can have free reign to spend at will without any one poking their noses in it. Not that you would try to swindle with my propriety but, you know, the mistress is the mistress…"

"I never agreed to it," Athos gave him one of his stern looks. "That's underhanded clause is low, even for of you."

"Do you mean I should not place my confidence on you?

"I mean, you are kicking a man when he's down."

"Far from it, Athos. I'm just staving off troubles with the lady. You don't know her, let me tell you, she's just as saver and want to know where every penny went…"

"Porthos." Athos called out and put his head on the headrest.

"Yes, my friend?"

"Next time you tell lies, try to use fewer words."

"Oh…"

Porthos fidgeted in his place, unable to cast an eye on Athos, too conscious of being trapped in the lie. Grimaud, who was going out the kitchen, noticed it and stop, uncertain if he should interrupt.

"Grimaud?" Athos called out; maybe he noticed the tinkling of the mugs.

That was the signal the servant was expecting and he approached with the drinks and gave Porthos a brown portfolio.

"You forgot the quill and ink, you dumb mute!"

The voice surprised both servant and master, Porthos tried to release some the pent-up mood that Athos advice gave him. In other times, Athos and his mute would sigh and let it be, but Athos' hand in his arm cut short his diatribe.

"Porthos, I'm most grateful to you for keeping the house running," Athos was being sensible and leveled, as usual, "but refrain yourself from yelling to Grimaud, please."

It was all out of the blue and most atypical in Athos' character that Porthos' jaw dropped and Grimaud froze in his place with a quizzed expression.

"Quill and ink, please," Athos commanded and took one of the warm mugs from Grimaud's hand.

Even when Grimaud retreated to the building after placing the other mug on the bench—turning his head a couple of times, as if he was trying to make sense of what just had happened—, Porthos was still racking his brain and trying to figure out the scene.

"Sit down, Porthos, and take a nip," Athos closed his eyes and took his first sip, "I'll sign your papers, you won."

Porthos sat but he was still too marveled to speak or even to drink. Athos took the portfolio and read the folia in it; his posture was all parsimony, not even frowning at the words, parsing the clauses with ease, like almost everything in him.

Grimaud came with the writing implements and Athos wrote his name at the bottom and in the margins, then he communicated some other orders in a flurry of hand signs and Grimaud retired with the portfolio and the inkwell after a deferential nod.

"What was it?" Porthos finally raised his cup and tried to sip. The liquid inside was not tea. "You two are too fluent for me to understand everything."

Athos darted an alarmed look to his friend, then he realized Porthos was pulling his leg. "The document need my seal, I remember Grimaud to stamp it properly."

"My behavior was less than exemplar." Porthos sipped his wine; it was such a good vintage. "I apologize, Athos."

"There is no need." Athos threw his head behind, enjoying the sun.

Since Athos closed the topic, Porthos was happy to oblige. They just sat for a long while and drank from their mugs sparingly; it was just like the old times in Paris, only with more light and less wine. Porthos wondered if Athos was aware of the oddness. Luckily for Porthos and his brain, Raoul reappeared by the corner, followed by his little friend, and began to madly do signals to him and, although they were not Athos and Grimaud, the message got clear. Porthos nodded and braced himself for the next tantrum of the Count, who maybe would not be too pleased with his new meddling in Bragelonne affairs.

"_Pa_!" Raoul called out running with his hands close to his chest, too excited to let the little stranger move on its own.

Athos turned his head and smiled to the boy. Then he noticed the short haired, tan colored beast in the Viscount's arms. Athos' forehead got profoundly creased but he couldn't utter one word, because Raoul overrode him with his childish delight.

"Look, _pa_! Look at it!" Raoul began to explain the dog to Athos even before he reached them, "Porthos gave it to me, isn't it cute? It would be a big dog, big enough to follow a horse, he said it so. Not the dog, Porthos!" Raoul mistook Athos face of bewilderment and outrage for confusion. "I have my own dog!"

"A dog?" Athos managed to articulate, casting his eye to Porthos. "You got him a _dog_?"

"Why not?"

Part of Porthos wanted to laugh at the scene.

"I called it Raoul," Raoul explained and held the little beast against Athos's head. "So everyone can tell it is my dog."

"You can't give it _that_ name!"

Surely, Athos would begin a tirade on the propriety of names; but at the time, the puppy chose to lick the tip of Athos's nose and Porthos noticed how the blood flooded in to his friend's head. Athos was dangerously near to a temper explosion; Porthos butted in without giving them so much time as to edge in a word, because a child should never see his father lose his wits in the spectacular way Athos used to do it; at least, not a child as little as Raoul.

"You might not believe it but there may be a point of true." Porthos said and took the creature in his big hand. "Who will come running when _M. le Comte_ shout 'Raoul' at the top of his lungs?"

"Oh!" Raoul turned his head to Porthos. "Never thought of it…"

"Well, take your dog and give the matter a little thought." Porthos handed over the puppy, "Then, you can make the proper presentations."

The children scrambled over the corner of the house with the puppy and Porthos laughed at their hasty retreat; in his book there was nothing like innocent pleasure. By his side, Athos was busy wiping puppy drool from his face.

"Get used to it," Porthos advised, "Dogs like to lick people."

"Not that I asked to have the drooling, yapping beast at home."

"You need a dog, if Raoul is to learn how to hunt. A boy needs a dog, too; I have fond memories of my own, and it's the perfect companion of adventures for a bundle of activity like Raoul."

"I would have appreciated that you would leave to me the choice, about the time and the race," Athos grunted and looked away.

"And the name, I bet my hat on it." Porthos raised his tea and managed to down it without a grimace. "Just for you to know, I had a cur named Georges once."

"But that's not your name…" Athos sulked and gave his friend a sideways glance.

"Are you sure?"

The look on Athos's face when he noticed that he didn't even know Porthos' name was indescribable; Porthos didn't even try to quell the hearty laugh that came from the deeps his chest. One of the things that kept the inseparables together all these years was the relative anonymity given by their _noms de guerre_ and how the managed to find their way purely on their facades was a modest miracle. They were family and they barely knew each other, Athos was not impervious to the irony and let his laugh out with all the appeal of the times gone.

They sigh when the hilarity seemed to be spent, but a quick glance threw them in tatters again and soon Grimaud was poking his head out of the window in the second story to inquire on the motive of that ruckus. Knowing that someone was keeping an eye on them made them regain their composure. Athos eyed his friend and shook his head a little before reaching for his tea.

"Is it an important name?" Porthos asked when he regained his voice. He was not a man to mince words. "For you, I mean... Raoul."

"It was my father's name," Athos said and took a sip, his eyes were a little glazed as he kept an eye on the border of the grove. "It is my child's name. I don't want to call a dog that name."

Porthos felt the urgent spur of curiosity and it took every ounce of his will to keep his mouth shut. Athos was more prone to share tidbits of his life if one just sits still and silent. Not that Porthos was awfully successful trying that particular stratagem.

"I have been thinking a lot of him, these last days." Athos muttered almost to himself.

Sensing a tasty morsel Porthos did his best to not react, but he could only chew on his mustaches for so long. After some heartbeats, he finally asked: "Did he drink a lot?"

"No. _M. le Comte_ was a total abstainer." Athos scratched his chin almost absent-minded. Porthos knew about the itch, the physician had warned him, but he was not sure if he should distract Athos from his memories. "I wager my habitual drunkenness had him mystified to the end of his days."

This was not a big revelation to Porthos. To achieve Athos' resistance one had to train hard.

"I suppose fathers are always baffled by their son's choices..."

Unmindfully, Athos tried to scratch his back, but the itch was out of reach and Porthos lend a hand, without thinking. This action received a thankful nod.

"I dread the day when Raoul become my little stranger, like I was to my father."

Porthos knew that look on Athos' face. He had seen it many times in Paris. Whatever was happening inside that head was dark and disheartening. From the outside, it was not pleasant to see, Porthos hardly could imagine what such kind of feeling was.

Then, it happened. Porthos was not sure why he raised his hand, and lest of all, why he slapped Athos' nape with enough force to bend him forward; if there was an outraged expletive, his ears didn't registered it. It was rude and excessive, but it did do the work and Athos' eyes were clear and sort of amused.

"Raoul is a clever boy," Athos' voice had a distinct raising tone of hilarity. "He'll find another name."

"I'm sure he will."

"It's getting a bit cold, Porthos," Athos got up; he was a little wobbly, "I think it's time to return in."

"If you think you got enough sun…" Porthos rose and got ready to help his friend with the robe.

Athos tried to walk to his residence, but his gait was not too steady and rested his weight on Porthos' obliging arm. They went to the stair landing, where Athos stopped, probably to catch his breath, but his eyes were wandering through the steps.

"Porthos…"

"Tell me."

"Maybe I should rest a bit on the salon," Athos said, his tone was matter-of-fact as usual, "I could dine with you later."

"That's a magnificent idea," Porthos agreed because it was obvious his friend realized he couldn't make his way up. "Raoul would love to have you at the table."

"If we are to make it a big occasion," Athos turned around to the corridor that leads to the salon, "I should ask Grimaud to fix me a bath."

Porthos let him go; he was having a little trouble suppressing the silly laugh at Athos efforts to retain his dignity in face of his weakened state.


	15. By Commission

****SUMMARY**: **September 1637, Porthod was getting ready to return home, but not without gaining some peace of mind._  
><em>****DISCLAIMER**:** Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.  
><em><br>_

**By Commission  
><strong>by Arithanas

_Never mind your happiness; do your duty.  
>~Peter Drucker<em>

Porthos smiled at the sight, he couldn't help it even if he tried.

The old-fashioned room put a frame to the nightly scene. Athos seated by the fire on his favorite chair; Raoul on his knee, sharing a book about hunting dogs, and to cap the décor, the puppy asleep by their feet. It was as domestic as it gets and seeing his morose friend caring for a boy in such fashion was both a delight and a wonder.

"Does your dog seem like this one?" Athos asked, his cheek absently caressing Raoul's hair. "How did you call the beast again?"

"Rou," Raoul giggled and rest his head on Athos' chest. "His muzzle is shorter…"

"_Its_ muzzle"

"And its legs are chubby," Raoul complied pointing at something in the page, "but Rou looks like that drawing."

"Well, it seems Rou is a sort of Braque, but we must check this book again when it gets bigger."

"Would you help me?"

"You know I would. Now, put Rou on his crate and wish Porthos good night. It's getting late."

Raoul climbed down Athos' knee and went to Porthos; the puppy meandered behind his steps, following those little boots as if they were part of his pack. Porthos waited until Raoul got near to pick him up. The boy laughed and volunteered a big kiss with his best wishes for a good night; it was no wonder Athos got so physical with the boy.

"Sleep well if you can, Porthos."

"Same to you," Porthos said and put the boy down.

As Athos recovered his health he became stern with Raoul's discipline, which was firm but fair. Raoul, knowing his bedtime might be enforced, kissed his puppy and put it in a deep crate filled with straw and an old blanket.

"Good night, Rou," Raoul said, crouched at the side of the crate, "tomorrow we'll play a little more."

Athos just tapped on Raoul's shoulder to draw his attention to the stairs. With a sigh, Raoul put the lid on the top of the crate and marched on to the stairs; Athos followed him, to herd reluctant boy to bed was the perfect ruse to hide his slow pace. Porthos mused how long Athos would travel to conceal his weaknesses; good thing for him, his strength was returning at a steady rhythm.

Porthos stretched his legs, enjoying the fire and the relative silence, the only thing that broke it were the constant whimpering of the puppy. Gloomy thought crossed Porthos' mind and a bit of company wouldn't hurt. He rose from his chair and took off the lid; the puppy sprang to the light and barked a joyful greeting.

"Make less noise," Porthos hushed it and took it in his big hand. "The house's sleeping."

Upon his return to the warm place, while the puppy nipped his fingers, Porthos started to sort his to do list. Mousqueton was packing their valises, the letter warning his wife of his return was wrote and on top of the table in the room where he dwelt since his arrival. In truth, he was supposed to be on the road a week ago, but heavy spirits came to him every time he thought of leaving this charming Bragelonne and their inhabitants; the reason was not apparent: Raoul was happy now that Athos was on his feet; and the count was satisfied once all his domestic trifles were back in his hands to be done and undone at his whim. Yet, there was a distinct unrest inside Porthos, mainly when Athos delved into one of his deep and brooding silences. Athos always had the health of a titan, his mind always worried Porthos because Athos' barn door was hanging by a rusty gland stud, sort of speak.

While he was figuring how to approach the difficult subject with someone as skittish as his host Porthos noticed the lean form that started to fix up the place, from the door to the heart, picking up a jug left behind, closing a book, fluffing the cushions; in sum, caring for the little details of Athos' daily life. Of course it could only be the silent Grimaud, because it seemed to be his reason to exist. That brought to his mind another subject in his agenda, why Grimaud wanted to leave? He always was the factotum, the diluted gray eminence behind Athos' powerful presence. Athos needed him to be Athos.

"Idling away the hours, are you?" Porthos asked as he didn't care for the answer. The truth was he was assaying every one of his expression, because Grimaud speaks with his body the same way other people speak with their mouth.

Grimaud glanced sideways at him, squared his shoulders and continued with his task, disdaining the question. There was something like pride in his stance.

"There is less work now the master is around, I suppose," Porthos said and scratched the puppy's ears, waiting for an answer. The answer was a little pause where Grimaud let his head hang as if abstracted in the idea. It was perplexing when the idea brought a sad sight. "It is good to receive clear orders for someone who doesn't change his heart every heartbeat, isn't it?"

There was a small shake on Grimaud's shoulders. Porthos has seen it before the times Grimaud tried to cover his laughter.

"I don't need you," Porthos continued, "to know my friend drank his share and more because I came, and therefore I discovered his dirty, little secret," there was a small pause when Porthos took notice of Grimaud's reaction: a stiff back and a complete stillness, "It is a delightful secret, I must admit, but you know how particular the Count is about the honor of his house."

That made Grimaud stood still. His loyalty was showing and Porthos took advantage of it, he rose from that comfortable chair and approached Grimaud with the puppy in his hand.

"I heard you are planning on leaving Bragelonne, and I understand you completely, by God!" Porthos put his big hand on Grimaud's lanky shoulder. "Athos is intransigent, morose, hidebound, prone to sulking and rancorous when he's thwarted, and those are his best qualities when he's sober, I dread to know what your master is to you when he's feeling no pain."

Not a syllable left Grimaud's lips when he made a sudden move to remove Porthos' hand. There was a silence between for some moments before Grimaud returned to his, as if Porthos were speaking to himself.

"It is way beyond my ken what you and Athos had lived together," Porthos said, a deep sorrow in his eyes, "but I know that without your presence, my friend would be lost, or at least left to his own devices. You and I know that those devices are defective, if not missing altogether."

Grimaud dusted one cushion with more force than was necessary.

"He would never take care of himself and you know it as well as I did," Porthos insisted in the mildest tones he could muster. "I want you here to care for him."

There was no answer as Grimaud went to the other side of the room to retrieve an empty bottle that Porthos left behind in a table.

"But if you want to go, I can't stop you."

Porthos put the pup in his crate and put the lid on it before a yelp could be heard. Grimaud minded him not and was in the way out when Porthos called his name to stop him.

"If you are to take your leave, here is a little something to help you."

In his way out, passing behind Grimaud's silent presence, Porthos left his heavy purse in a table by the door.

...

Later that week, the whole house was full of activity under the careful eye of Grimaud who had his hands full with waiting on Raoul. The child was trying to sabotage the imminent departure of his new friend with the best of his abilities to the extent some items were packed thrice that morning and, despite Grimaud's watchful pair of eyes, a couple of shirts and a huge boot were found hidden around the house months later.

Mousqueton was busy sharing his master's appreciation in form of silver coins for everyone in the servant quarters. It was a good fortune that he remembered every face or else his master's purse would be too light for the travel ahead.

Athos, meanwhile, took Porthos to a walk around the propriety, as if to prove to his friend that the crisis had left no lasting damage. Porthos laugh could be heard from the house in several occasions, they were making the most of that early morning.

Mousqueton and Grimaud found each other in the parlor while pursuing their respective tasks. They could not give a more dissimilar image; Grimaud was calm and composed while Mousqueton was half deranged with keeping an eye in all the travel preparations. In normal circumstances, a short nod was all they need before returning to their function, but these were hardly normal circumstances.

"Grimaud!" Mousqueton called and took his college by the arm.

Grimaud mumbled a surprised word before giving his friend his undivided attention.

"My master's told me his purse is gathering dust, thought I don't know what he means."

There was a scoff full of derision.

"What is it?"

"Take it," the laconic answer was served with a mysterious and self-assured smile, "I'm not going anywhere."

"And what does it means?"

"Ask him," it was all that Grimaud said before recovering his arm and returning to his labors.

Mousqueton remained dumbfounded for some heartbeats, but then disregarded all as nonsense, there was a lot of work at hand.

...

After a light meal, the horses were brought to the courtyard. Tight hugs and promises of letters were exchanged between two friends as the servants were securing the valises. Raoul clutched both Porthos legs and begged him not to go.

"I'll return soon, Raoul," Porthos picked him up and tried to comfort him. "In the mean time you have to teach Rou a lot of things. I expect to see a well behaved dog when I visit you again."

"I'll miss you!" Raoul promised and got his arms around Porthos' neck.

"And I'll miss you too, but I have a wife waiting for me at home. A gentleman mustn't get a lady waiting."

"I suppose..."

"There, take care of the Count for me and write me often."

"I promise to, Porthos!"

Porthos laughed at Athos appalled expression at that chummy disposition in front of the service displease his noble bearings considerably.

"Here is your boy, M. de la Fère," Porthos said, trying to be as formal as Athos could wish, "With my gratitude for the excellent accommodation you provided. It was amusing!"

"It was our pleasure, du Vallon," Athos replied, taking Raoul from his friend's arms. "Please, have a safe trip."

"I'll do my best," the promise was made as Porthos got into the saddle. "Oh, I almost forgot!"

From above horse, Porthos made a fluid movement from his waist towards the group of people gathered to see him off; further towards a person at the right hand of Athos. Grimaud, who was the person to whom the motion was directed, was taken by surprise and just managed to bring his hand to his face and swat away whatever was thrown to his way. The heavy bag fell to the feet of Grimaud with a dull thud and a small cloud of dust, Athos threw a quick glance to the object and a more confused look to Porthos, one look that Porthos disregarded completely.

"Every soldier needs a pay, Grimaud!"

And with those words, Porthos started his way out of Bragelonne; Raoul followed him until the gate with Rou yapping happily in trail. As Bragelonne inhabitants returned to their work Athos cast a heavy glance on his most trusted servant.

Grimaud just shrugged, before reaching down to pick the bag and handing it to his master with his most candid look.

Athos just shook his head and turned around to get inside the mansion.


	16. My dog ate it

**Disclaimer:** Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.  
><strong>Synopsis: <strong>**October 1637, Blois.**Athos began his memories under one far-from-auspicious sign and Raoul almost lost a cherished possession.

_No, U. Here is where the dog comes out._

**The First Draft  
><strong>by Arithanas

_A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of.  
>~Ogden Nash<em>

Athos stared at the page. Finally, it wasn't a blank page what his eyes peruse, like the previous days. There was a sense of accomplishment in starting a sort of diary. He hung his bottom lip for a moment, giving the idea the due consideration. No, not a diary, those were his memories.

Athos passed his fingers thought the edge of the sheets, a good deal was written in that gloomy October morning, more than he had wrote the last ten years. It was a good intellectual exercise to write a coherent sentence while the rain drummed on the shutters. As he interlaced his fingers behind his head, Athos gave the weather a thought. Cold rain was not good at this time of the year and he found himself fortunate of having no crops to care of. With the satisfactory feeling of having achieving something, even something as banal as starting his memories, Athos rise from his chair and decided to treat himself with a hot mug of tea.

Pleased from being able to manage the treacherous and steep backstairs, Athos descended the steps humming one of those randy, yet inventive, tavern airs Porthos used to sing when the wine was on him. Athos was well aware of the lyrics, but he refused to sing them aloud because Raoul was set on repeat every word that could fall from Athos' lips and the last thing he wanted was his boy to use soldier's language before his time.

The kitchen was hot, Charlot's wife was busy giving Raoul and Blaisois a bite to eat while the couple of rascals were drying their clothes by the heart. Athos signaled his greetings and, without ceremony, he filled a mug with one of the infuser ball that sat over the mantle and hot water from the metal jar Charlot's wife had always ready over the fire. Then he scurried away before the poor woman would notice the master served his own tea, she would have a fit and Athos was in far too good mood to take care of a little domestic tragedy.

When he returned to his chair, his desk and his quill, he noticed the absence immediately. The budding document was not where he left it. That made no sense, since he only went downstairs and immediately went up, he didn't stop to talk to Grimaud about checking the stables, he didn't asked Charlot's wife about dinner, he didn't even exchange a word with Raoul; he felt a need to return to his folder and his folio, which, coincidentally, had been vanished from its place.

Frowning, almost sulking, Athos wondered who would be bold enough to enter his private rooms and steal something written from his own hand. It was unseemly that anyone in Bragelonne had taken the master's belongings. It had never happened before; people in the castle are trusted servants, honest people in general.

The soft whining behind him helped him to clear the mystery —that sound had been the herald of Raoul's presence those last months —, until he realized that behind him there was only the door of his bedroom. And said door was closed.

For a moment, the idea of scolding Raoul by trespassing brewed in his brain, and then it came to his senses that Raoul was in the kitchen with Charlot's wife and Blaisois; there was no way Raoul could get his dog and rushed stairs up without his knowledge. The dog was in his room, without its master or any supervision whatsoever, and Athos rushed to the door and opened it.

The scene was quite appalling, to say the least. The first thing on which his eyes were laid was the folder, that soft, red damask leather folder was gutted in the middle of the floor, small scraps of paper, some with ink, some still clean were thrown around. The fate of his papers was clear as a warm summer morning sky, it was such a shame his inner mood was darker than a winter night. Yet, even at the brink of apoplexy fit Athos was a man of shrewd understanding. First, he would catch the mutt; then he would skin it!

Athos entered his bedroom with light, even steps, the beast was a calm one, if he could avoid giving it a start, it would be easy to seize; his eyes scrutinized every corner waiting for the whining to be repeated. The room was selected because it was easy to guard, there was only one door and high windows; the furniture was sparse and practical, yet fitting his rank. Where on Earth the damned beast could find a place to hide?

Of course, the dust ruffle.

Athos knelt by the side of the bed and lifted the piece of cloth; the room was dim but under the bed it was a dark pit where shadows gathered and nurtured pieces of the still of the night. It was silent too; not a clue of the raspy breath of the animal, not a whining to draw attention to any corner. That inspection done, Athos sat on his heels, baffled by the unsatisfactory outcome.

The yapping —he could not call that sound a bark— unnerved him a bit before the fact that the dog was on his bed, among the pillows, fell into his brain. There was the beast with some scrunched and wet pieces of paper with Athos' neat calligraphy on them.

"You…" the rest of the sentence was an incoherent growl.

All was happening at an uncanny speed, Athos always believe his time at sea and army trained his brain to react to action. Athos was not thinking, he leapt to the bed trying to grab the puppy, but that sudden movement give the beast the scare of its life, it narrowly escaped those hands because it stop to collect the paper before jumping off the bed, whining the whole time. Athos, meanwhile, crashed to his headboard and raised a racket that rendered impossible his plans of a swift capture; when he recovered his wits he ran after the animal that was raising a ruckus worse than his. Athos only invested a couple of strides to cross his bedroom, but by the time he reached his study the only thing in sight was the wagging tail of the dog; for a heartbeat he considered a short sprint was all was needed, then his foot slipped on a puddle and the momentum sent him face-first onto the floor.

As Athos tried to regain his foot his mind worked the puzzling appearance of that liquid in an otherwise dry floor: dog piss.

God help him, Raoul's pet soiled his rooms.

That was it.

That dog was no more, one way or another, Athos vowed to get rid of that troublesome presence.

Athos was barely aware of Raoul's head peaking at the balustrade of the back steps; most of his attention was on the critter that was getting away. By the time Athos reached the stairwell Raoul was placing his foot on the last step. Neither the beast nor the men heed his presence, they both, dog and man, passed by the child's side at breakneck speed.

Then, time changed rhythm again, in the opposite direction and in an inconvenient manner, as it used to.

From the moment where Raoul's voice left his lips Athos felt how slow his own movements where when he turned around and saw that Raoul lost hold of the handrail as he was climbing without minding his proper grasp on the wood in spite of the overly repeated advise to do so. Athos was annoyed when a part of his mind got angry at Raoul's disregard of the safety rules, by an effort of will —and to be honest, a good deal of panic—he shifted his focus to the body of his boy falling backwards down the stairwell.

Raoul's face just expressed a mild surprise when he lost his footing. The child was not aware that behind and below him there was only a vacant space and that he would plummet to a certain death, but the horror must be clear on Athos' face because their eyes met and the kid's countenance started to contort with alarm and fear.

Athos was sure he won't be quick enough, he could see how his arm reached the space between them, how his fingers stretched in front of him; he surely didn't feel how his knees hammered the wooden floor with enough force to bruise the flesh. Raoul was falling down and he won't be able to stop him. The sensation of his third finger touching his boy's wet shirt was frightening, just the tip of his finger on the armscye of that light fabric that could be torn or slip since there was no other hold; Athos felt his back strained, and another tip, his ring finger this time, hook into the fabric. For a brief beat of Athos frantic heart, the grip began to consolidate.

There had been no time to get used to the feeling, Raoul reacted frantically at the sight that extended arm; he tried to hold the limb with desperation and once more Athos felt his child escaped his grip because his fingers lost touch and his hand opened when the twenty pounds of Raoul's weight pulled the half-healed shoulder out of place again with a sudden and sharp stab of pain.

Raoul flinched when he noticed the wince in Athos' face and tried to let go his sole point of support, but the other arm was already around his girth pulling him to safety. Only then, with Raoul's head tucked under his chin, Athos allowed himself to let out a groan, a small one, almost a whimper, among short gasps for air.

The child, tiptoed at the edge of the step, shuddered and moaned before burying his face on Athos' shoulder, and God was merciful enough to let him choose the good one. In a fit of fatherly affection Athos lack arms to caress the boy he almost lost, his left hand pressed Raoul's head against his chest and his mouth kissed that sweaty temple in a vain effort to dispel the fright; he was not master of his mind as he was of his body, a hundred of different scolding speeches ran right through his mind, but all he could mutter was: "You are safe, Raoul."

Raoul sobbed into Athos' shoulder; almost prompting the same response in the adult as relief flooded Athos like a warm wave. Not even the yapping of the dog or his paws on his shirt, or the second-hand licking he got when the beast tried to get Raoul's attention could mitigate that feeling.

"Pa…" Raoul called, once his crying fit subdued.

"Tell me," Athos had his eyes closed, enjoying the comfort of his secure presence against his body.

"Your clothes are wet…"

"I'll explain that," Athos promised and opened his eyes, praying that it was just the dog's mess, "along with why Rou is not allowed in the house."

"But it's raining outside!"

Athos didn't answer his boy; his attention was drawn to the silent and bewildered figure standing halfway up the stairs staring at the father, son and dog scene. By Grimaud's expression, Athos reckoned he saw nothing except for what was before his eyes; that would be not a trouble since Raoul would fill him in in a timely fashion.

Athos let go Raoul's back and signaled, as clearly as possible, that Grimaud must send someone to look for the surgeon. A short nod was all the answer required.

...

Athos sat in his favorite chair by the fire, minding his bound shoulder. The weather had been wet for the last two days and the dampness hurt the flesh which helps nothing to cure his sour mood. Even if he knew the puppy was just a beast, Athos felt particularly vengeful, in his secret heart he was planning to get a dogskin purse for himself; if his plans were not more ambitious were due to the lack of material he could extract from the dog.

Of course, such dark plans would never consolidate; Athos rather chew his rancor and sulk in solitude than to hurt Raoul, who was far too attached to the awful puppy. Still, that dog destroyed almost a week of work, Athos had managed to describe his first months in Paris and how Porthos and he laid waste to all Parisian taverns before Aramis came to the musketeers. Athos doubted he would be able to put all of that together in such a coherent fashion; even the style was of his taste...

The movement behind him drew Athos from his commiseration feast; he even made the effort to give his face a veneer of solemnity. His struggles were wasted because it was only Grimaud with a tankard of tea and the remnants of his writing attempts. A quick exchange was enough to consult what would be the final destination of his creative materials.

"I won't take any supper, Grimaud," Athos said and threw the gutted folder and the chewed folios to the fire. "Please, warn Charlot's wife."

Despite the disapproval in his face, Grimaud nodded and went to comply with the order, leaving his master to his grim thoughts. Athos couldn't care less of what Grimaud could think.

"Pa…" Raoul's voice was the next thing that took him off his dark revelry but the budding smile died in his lips when Raoul corrected himself, "I mean, _M. le Comte_…"

"Tell me, Raoul."

"You told me once that asking for forgiveness it's not enough," Raoul came to Athos chair, the damned mutt at his heels; the beast had the good sense to hide the tail between its legs. "You told me one has to make amends and repair whenever it is possible, right?"

The boy accompanied his words with a sudden movement to place a bounded quire with sturdy leather covers on Athos' knees.

"But, Raoul, it wasn't you who destroy my things."

"I know! It was Rou who is not bad, but young," Raoul explained his case, big eyes full of tears, "You are never cross when I mess around because I know not better. Please don't be cross with Rou, he needs to learn..."

Athos didn't let him continue; he scoped up Raoul with his good arm and hugged him. Sometimes he got the feeling that he was doing something right with that boy and that feeling worth all the chagrin and pain of the world. Raoul hugged him back hard, even the damned mutt recovered its spirits and yapped its content.

"Where did you buy this journal?" Athos asked when he could rein the outpouring of his joy.

"Grimaud took me to Blois," Raoul confessed, trying to find a comfortable place in that lap that was getting rather small for his size. "It was hard to find one."

"And I suppose it took great part of your wealth…"

"I- Hey! Rou!"

Before Athos realized what was happening, Raoul jumped off his lap to go in pursuit of his dog. Rou had stolen the new blank book and was trying to run away from the room with his prey.

"Bad dog!" Raoul cried, "Give it back, Rou!"

Athos saw the chase and sighed. It seemed that God's plans were opposed to his endeavors, maybe it was not ordained that Athos wrote his memories down and who was he to argue with God?

Athos sipped his tea while in a vain attempt to take things philosophically. There was not much he could do about it.

"But if I ever got the chance to give it another try," Athos mumbled to himself, watching the fire where his frustrated attempt was being roasted slowly, "I'll start with how do I meet d'Artagnan. Raoul would be upset if he ever knew Porthos and me are not heroes…"


End file.
